Conversations with God
by StarfallAraj
Summary: AU, potential season 7. Right at the very moment that god-Castiel finally decides to do away with Sam and Dean, the two Winchesters find themselves confronted by the most unlikely saving grace... Now COMPLETE.
1. Dean

**A/N 1: **So, here we are again. I love toying with end-game possibilities when it comes to Sam and Dean, and for some reason my mind is stuck on their interaction with God, which will hopefully be something we see once the show achieves the run-down to its natural end. Yeah, call me one-track-minded, but I do so love the possible conversations that can arise in such a confrontation. I think that the only way for the show to really hit the 'we've done it all' mark is to reveal God at some point, what with Castiel gone haywire and gaga with soul-fused powers and all. So, here's my sorta second take on the whole thing.

**Conversations with God**

**Chapter 1: Dean**

First there was fire.

It surrounded him in blazing orange, burned a devastating swathe across his sight. It crept around the edges of vision and left his eyeballs bleeding moisture that evaporated almost instantly. For a moment he thought it was over, the crisping, sizzling sensation scorching retinas, burning veins, searing pupils, blowing blood from his tear ducts. He thought he was screaming, and maybe he was. But who cares, right? One more… brilliant… blazing… _fucked up_… failed Hail Mary pass blown to shit and then some. Fire was a destroyer for them (for him), the great purifier and absolver of life. It took with one hand, and then it took with the other, right before revealing that it had more hands than a Hindu god on a killing spree, and it was just getting started. All comers, none spared.

Fire was the end of every Winchester.

It took his mom, left her devastated in defiance of gravity, burning on a ceiling and boiling blood, skin, flesh and fluid. It stole breath and it ate into life. It gave comfort in opposition to peace, devastated nerves right after shocking the very core of existence in ruinous conflagration. It gave no mercy, observed no sympathy, obeyed no clemency. It was impartial, even when it was directed by the hands of man, monster, demon or angel. _I'm sorry. So sorry that I could not live without him, and damned you both for it._

It took his dad, leaving false comfort in peace, bestowing a burning end to stall unnatural possession, to purify a mortal coil bereft of soul. It ate through bandages and hungered after necrotic flesh. It awarded the final dissolution to avert unholy return, to ward off the depravities of the very things that life was spent on hunting down and obliterating. _Never become what you hunt. Death before dishonour. _

It took his little brother. Not in death, no, not as a rite of passage to sever the anchor that bound soul to flesh and released obligation to mortality. Fire was impartial, was shorn in birth as in death from subjective goals. Served only objective, total immersion. Fled from the hand that birthed it and tore through anything dry, brittle, desiccated and doused in oil, gasoline or other black and tarred fluids of empowerment. But there were… escalations. Increments. Fire that burned bright orange, then golden yellow, then profane blue, the colour of all-consuming sorceries unbound by nature taking its course and having its way. The colour of magic as it died. But there was also hellfire, the tool of darkness and perversion, the bane of the fallen, the weapon of the mighty adversary and its callow, depraved minions. Fire that burned even the black smoke of the enemy's incorporeal, near-untouchable essence. Fire that burned to torment even the hand of the one who had always used it to warp souls and remake them into a fallen parody of humanity. Hellfire had scoured his little brother's being to the very core, ruptured sanity and soul, skinned sensibility and shrived purpose, leaving pain to toy with time and start all over again when even harrowed flesh, bone, guts and organs reconstituted themselves in the intangible, immutable and irrevocable confines of the Cage. _A fat face full of Hell, and always the fire, assailing his skin, his face, his throat as he screamed himself raw._

Hellfire took him as well. It was less a torture than his little brother's, and far less a torment than what his littlest brother – _oh God, Adam, I'm so sorry, I chose Sam, I chose the one I knew and loved _best_ – _was enduring still. Locked, dissolute and destroyed, an eradication that bordered on atomization, if only it were allowed, if only it were a recourse of mercy endowed even when the perpetrators of the greatest rage and hatred saw fit to finally give in and release. But hellfire was hellfire, and when you knew one aspect of it, you knew, even for a second, how truly, terribly, _blatantly_ agonizing it was in every possible way. One taste was a foretaste, and one lick was enough to let you know just how truly _fucked_ you were for ever thinking that you knew what you signed up for, what you sacrificed in the name of love, of salvation for all but yourself. _Adam isn't home right now. But he was, and he was _burning _still._

But there were worse things than hellfire. Worse fires that burned, and not in pits of hell, or holes in Purgatory, or souls of warped contention and best intentions. This was a fire that was limned on the outside by horrible, spewing tongues of red, captured in the anguish of eternity, encircled by eldritch black gouts yet dancing around a core of vicious, unseen waves of heat. It was enough to blast the flesh from bones across mile-wide distance, to bubble stone to slag and melt bone into glass. It annihilated man, it disbanded the dark aspect that bound demons into their forms, it turned angelic wings into cinders and tortured archangels into whimsical slivers of mewling apathy before humiliating them with true death.

It ran in thin rivulets around Dean Winchester, spider webs of fine lines so thin that the molecules in the air screamed and hummed like miniature lightning discharges, sounding over even the devouring maw of moisture evaporating into nothing more than breath-robbing gas. And Dean bowed his head, and thought it fitting that his death was nary a whisper, mostly a sizzle and definitely a bang of organic matter giving up a ghost that would not be free of this all-destroying appetite. He tucked his head under his arm, screamed open-mouthed and silent as life and humanity clamoured one final time for defiance before submission, for foolhardy stubbornness enough to make even the bull-headed John Winchester squirm uncomfortably in whatever grave or resting place he held. _For an angel, once a brother, now a foe, whose betrayal took form as fire fuelled by every monstrous soul once trapped in Purgatory, brought into existence as a planet-eating, gold-encrusted miasma of liquid-flowing destruction. _And Sam was there, crouched somewhere behind Dean, hunkering down behind the heavy sliding door that separated this rust-bucket of a warehouse chamber from the next, no doubt gripping tight to make sure his floppy-haired head didn't separate from his gigantor body and zoom into that Cage dimension where it still went sometimes, when stress got the better of him and Dean was in mortal danger. Damn nuisance, Hell-memories, and Sam's were enough to make you piss yourself on a regular basis. _Hope this fire kills us both quick little brother. Hope it gives you peace,_ Dean thought belatedly, choking back a sob that would have stuttered and gasped into oblivion anyway.

And then there was…

Silence.

And in the silence, Dean Winchester suddenly quieted himself, hearing his own cracked voice shudder to a stuttering halt, his screams of rebellion and unwavering resolution – _just one more gasp, just one more fleeting __ – _dying down. He dared to raise his head, bring it out from where its last resting place would have been, and opened up eyes that burned almost as mercilessly in their drying-out sockets. Expecting death, expecting some weird, in-between moment of cruel recollection and life-flashes-before-my-eyes before that horrific terror of Purgatorial bane-blast nullified him. And what he saw…

What he saw made him want to weep.

The fire, that had no colour and only promised damnation beyond even hell, was flickering and fanning out all around him, running a circle around his embattled position on the decimated concrete slab of the no-name warehouse interior, still trapped between the four walls of this unremarkable and forgettable and empty storage place, somewhere in Pack-You-Away-After-Twelve, Arizona, population 'Consider Yourselves Goddamn Lucky to be Alive'. The fire made no sound, was an absence of it, assaulting battered senses like a drink of dirty water after five days of nothing. In the absence of aural stimulation, Dean wondered whether his eardrums had melted out, but he felt no stabbing pain in his ears. _Your nerves are shot, you can't feel shit_. Nope, not that either, because his heart hammered in his chest so hard it felt like it wanted to punch a hole through his ribcage, and his breathing was suddenly so loud and laboured that he actually felt mortified. But the fire that had no colour except the burn of psychedelic fractals before total blindness erupted and became forever was suddenly white, and silent and pure as driven snow. It didn't hurt him to look at it, and he realized that even the closest fluttering plume of it, not even a foot away from his ass, gave off no heat. He squinted, eyes still beleaguered, still sore from impending doom. He looked up, at where Castiel stood, and was still standing. And Dean gasped, a hoarse sound throttled out of his throat. Castiel, eyes etched in gold and pure-blind fury, the misguided rage of a newly minted god, was frozen in his rictus grimace of self-righteous smiting even as the fire all around danced merrily free of whatever had frozen him.

"What…" Dean began, finding his voice, even though it could hardly be called vocal, let alone communicative.

"Of all the damnable cries for attention," a voice brought Dean to a reality far removed from whatever one he had thought he occupied prior to his demise. On creaking legs and almost unwilling arms he managed to swing his body about, still-harried gaze seeking the owner of the voice. He found him just a few steps behind himself, standing right in the middle of the fire, untouched by it, not even the simple and almost nondescript clothing so much as moving in a fiery breeze. The… man… looked like a GQ poster boy, all angular face, full mouth, perfectly proportioned nose, elegant high brows and smouldering blue eyes. And a hairline like that would be the envy of every mid-life-crisis guy, even ones without the damnation of male-pattern baldness encroaching. A tall, slender and elegant body, with arms held to the sides, hands clasped behind the back. No shoes, only classy grey pants and a button-down shirt with the long sleeves rolled up to the elbows. Dean half expected camera flashes and someone yelling 'pout, _now!'_ any second. The man took a single step closer, the eyes not leaving the enraged god-Castiel, still frozen in time.

"What the hell?" Dean grated. He tried to swallow, nearly choked on Death Valley and dignified what was left of his ego with a not-so-gallant clearing of the throat. Only then did the guy look at him, and Dean honestly wished to never be the brunt of so much… _intensity_. Castiel's deadpan god-visage, bereft of all compassion, was enough, and even Sam-as-Lucifer never instilled such awe – or terror – in Dean. And then pieces began clicking together, demanding attention with all the ferocity of three decades-plus of hunting, paranoia and big brother's prerogative, and the revelation left him reeling. "Oh, you have got to be kidding me," he said, voice husky, mouth thinning with distaste.

"Better late than never," God stated, voice sounded magnificently convivial. It pissed Dean off like very few things ever could. He frowned for a short moment. Hadn't the guy's hair been blonde a moment ago?

"Your time not being our time, right?" Dean challenged, almost wishing for Castiel's fire to run its course and burn him to a deeply impersonal collection of undetectable atoms. Blue eyes turned sea-green and danced with the eldritch reflections of the white fire around them.

"If I gave you a bird's eye view of all of this," God said, and raised His right arm to spread it to one side, encompassing the scene around them, "you would probably have ended up like My arrant little soldier-turned-pretender over there." Dean quickly cast a glance in Castiel's direction. Still frozen like a life-sized meat popsicle. "Although grace does allow for better containment than, say, a human soul."

"Why the… why pitch in now? _Really? Now? After all this?" _A little bit of defiance returned to his fatigued body, and Dean tottered upright, pushing himself to his feet with one arm and ignoring the undignified seesaw of the other arm desperately seeking to balance his efforts. He felt suddenly hot, hotter than before, and sweat burned an itch into his dry skin, sending a barrage of pins and needles dancing across his body.

"No matter what answer I give you right now, Dean, you will not be satisfied," God said, and His unblinking gaze conveyed only sympathy. Again, Dean rallied stubbornly, refusing to fall for puppies even when they were employed by the Almighty. "I'll let you have a moment to give in to blinding rage before I give you a little feedback on all of this."

"_You selfish… _selfish… _holy father-figure BASTARD!" _Dean's ungainly and not-so-very extreme epithet ended in a cry of pure frustration, and he knew that if he had any strength left he would have wind-milled and flailed about with enough pent-up energy to float a foot off the air, so all-inclusive was his annoyance at that point. "_You could have prevented all of this!"_

"Wanna know why I let this happen?" God asked in a kindly voice. Still the fire raged in beautiful, incandescent white and harmless glory, and still Castiel was frozen in what was fast becoming quite a ridiculous pose of useless intent. God did not wait for Dean to find a word to suitably convey his response, instead continuing. "Free will."

"Come again?" Dean hacked out, eyes narrowing as he tried to compute. God shrugged slightly, yet in no way unsympathetically. Was this it? Free will as the excuse, _again? _Castiel the wunderkind angel-turned-angry-god had used that one too. _So had Sam, but for different reasons. Good ones. Salient and worthy ones._

_Sam._

Mother of G – Dean looked at God, eyes suddenly swimming in moisture, and he tried to convince himself that Sam was similarly frozen, just like Cas was. He swallowed almost convulsively, knowing it was a fool's hope. Why would Sam experience any mercy now, just because the Guy they'd been hoping on since Lucifer rose suddenly chose to put in an appearance? But hey, here he was, having a nice chat with God. Who suddenly pronounced:

"Choice."

"Oh yeah, and _look what that got us!" _Dean snarled, living in a moment of anger before steeling himself for when he would have to beg for Sam's safety. He threw an arm out in Castiel's direction. "Family that doesn't end with blood and we get screwed over _yet again_, and for _free effing will!"_

"Castiel will be dealt with shortly," God said, and walked closer, hair unnaturally still, and turning the colour of a haystack. Dean wondered what the price would be for smacking God in the face, or at the very least throwing himself bodily at Him. "Free will is a human gift."

"Yeah, we're such a _swell_ bunch when we all get to do what we want," Dean snarked, his anger simmering. "It didn't stop Your angels from dicking around with this planet!" His lips quivered with pent-up emotion, and his mind vacillated between screaming fury and the desire to just give in and sob his embattled heart out at the travesty of his life. It was kinda of hard not to listen as God spoke, the words easy, the voice melodious and non-invasive, no elements of the crooning corruption of Lucifer, the whimsical mood-swings of the Mother, or the slightly unhinged and very much power-mad lilt of Castiel, even remotely apparent in _His_ voice. God sounded like some guy you would meet on the street and ask for directions.

"Demons don't have it anymore. They are… illusions of it. Free will without restraint, even when they scheme and plot and plan. My angels? Never granted such options until now, simply because the rule book kinda got thrown out the nearest window. I admit I was curious to see how it would all go, but the grace that powers them is… not really made for such things."

"Tell that to your _idiot_ eldest kids!" Dean snapped irately. He just couldn't help himself, so he looked anywhere but into God's face, settling rather for casting about, in search of a rock to kick away, or a something to occupy his somersaulting thoughts. Anything to keep the ire going, because he didn't just want to give in now, now that the potential for setting things right completely was having a chat with him.

"Two of them are being punished as we speak, and it was of their own doing," God said matter-of-factly. Dean swallowed, knowing the two particular archangels in question. "Gabriel, the little dickens – bless his mischievous little heart – will be spending a lot of time doing exactly the opposite of trickery, and Raphael…" God's face turned slightly pensive, "Raphael will learn soon enough that there's a difference between his will and My own, and what happens to false pretences."

"Hate to break it to You, but 'little Gabe' got toasted by Lucy, and Raphael got short-changed by short bus over there," Dean said, feeling incredibly weary now, even as he hiked a thumb in Castiel's general direction. He looked at God, and was immediately shocked, unnerved and reminded of whom he was talking to by the unremitting hazel-green – _does this guy's eyes stand still on one colour for more than _one_ second? Seriously? – _gaze that watched him. He was sure there was a hint of quiet, coaxing sympathy there, and couldn't find it in himself to muster up belligerence. No, that would have required that God _condescend_ to him, and try as he might, Dean couldn't find any trace of holier-than-thou in that stare. "Right, of course, how could I be so stupid?" God gave a small smile, one that touched the corners of the eyes, but not the eyes themselves.

"No deed unwatched, no evil unpunished, no good unrewarded. No escape from responsibility."

"Yeah right," Dean snorted.

"All things in their time," God chided gently. He walked past Dean and moved to stand in direct sight of Castiel, albeit separated by a wall of white fire and maybe fifteen feet or so. "Free will was why I separated you from the angels, Dean. Free will was why I let each and every one of my human children do as they please, even when the consequences for bad decisions were crystal clear, even when some of you willingly fell in spite of nearly unending warnings, as if to spite Me." God breathed out a slow sigh. "This freedom is why you suffer, why you fall and get up again. Why you learn from your mistakes, even when the guilt makes you lose your minds. Lets you rise higher than you were before, lets you become more than you could ever be, had not suffering and pain tempered your efforts. Can you imagine what life would have been like, if everything was handed to you on a platter? Every decision made already, every choice set in stone? Even _I_ shudder at the sheer boredom of it."

"No offense, but You didn't have to live it," Dean stated, taking a calming breath and trying to make sense of all of this. It was a testament to some form of shock that the reality of _talking to God, face to face_, had not yet turned him into a weepy pile of jello. Or that his apparent flippant attitude did not see him get a smiting of truly Godly proportions. Go figure. All the anger in the world, and finally he meets his Maker, and he doesn't even feel the courage-blunting terror, or the soul-eating ferocity of a lifetime of being c-blocked by the very order of things that _He_ had instituted and allowed to happen. As if that victory of getting some answers and demanding some resolutions, however fleeting it would have been, was robbed of clout even before it could live and draw breath.

"Didn't I?" God winked at him – _winked!_ "Oh, I'm not just talking about _My _Son. No, remember what Joshua told you in that… disgusting and pathetic rendition of Heaven?" God asked, twirling one hand in the air, eyes raised skyward, mouth twisting ever so slightly on announcing what He actually thought of Zachariah's imagination. Dean swallowed, appalled at having one of his burning questions answered so casually, and simultaneously appeased and heartbroken at the outcome of that episode in their lives. He also remembered, clear as day, what the angel Joshua had said.

"You were on earth," he whispered, and found his eyes suddenly capable of moisture again. A bit too much, so he chalked it up as a bit of weirdo white fire managing to… irritate the dryness further. Funny how there had only ever been just one angel that had never lied to them, in any way. "He also said You were done, didn't want to get involved."

"In the actual apocalypse? No, I didn't, _and_ I didn't. I placed My faith on the right horses, as it were. Bided My time until there really was no other alternative left than getting involved in this way. Thought it best to explain a few things while I'm about."

"So you were…" Dean stated, leaving the question hanging.

"Living multiple incarnations and lives, experiencing life through the very existence of the human children I love so much," God completed the statement, and Dean was shocked beyond belief to see His eyes glistening as well. "Not through them as vessels. As separate, unknowing and complete, free-thinking individuals, subject to the same pitfalls and trials, shortfalls and failures, triumphs and successes, as any one of you. No powers, no last-minute Hail Mary's. Born, in pain, into life, learning, growing, excelling, suffering, despairing, persevering, crying, mourning, laughing, triumphing, dying… the whole kit-and-caboodle, no holds barred."

"Sinning?" Dean asked, channelling a bit of Sam's incisive lawyerly instinct. He was rewarded with a smile.

"Even sinning."

"I thought God couldn't sin."

"_I_ can't. But people can. People do, and when I said I went for the whole experience, I meant it. But even as it was me, it _wasn't _me." Seeing Dean's frown, and reading far beyond merely the facial expression, God's smile became one of immense longsuffering and tempered mercy. "It's hard to explain without going very deeply into all sorts of quantum mechanics and chaos structures. In the end there's just no mathematical way to even describe the end result. Even words will fail in the explanation, eventually. But I had to do it."

"Why?" Dean asked, perplexed. God gave a slight sigh, and a wistful smile crossed His face.

"So that I can stand here, right now, and tell you that I understand what my human children go through, each and every single day."

Dean closed his eyes. Really, _really_ wished that life's revelations didn't knock the wind from him every single time. Wished he had Sam's giant brain to somehow prepare himself for when those knocks came, so that he could put two and two and fifty million and seventy-nine point three-oh together to come up with some super-human logic to just give him peace of mind. But no, this was God, so Dean supposed he was in for a few. He opened his eyes again, ignored that single tear running down his cheek that always betrayed just how he felt, even when every single defence in his mind tried to coerce his body to submit to a junta of 'never show weakness', just like his dad had taught him.

"I wish I never had to ask of you, what I did," God said.

"Ask me?" Dean replied, puzzled, voice hoarse and full of tears.

"I wish it never boiled down to you, or your brothers. That you could have been spared this Armageddon. Spared my angelic children's cries of frustration and loneliness, and their efforts to end the world when they could no longer justify or understand my absence from Heaven. I wish I could have spared you all several lifetimes of absolute Hell, in every sense of the word." God took a step towards Dean, who swallowed, raised his trembling chin and tried his best not to coil his body for fight-or-flight. Hoped to God that God was not in the mood to hug, because that would seriously just be the _weirdest_ thing ever. _Because Dean might just not be able to deny such a thing, and that idea scared him, no matter that it was _God. Fortunately, God seemed to read feelings, emotions, thoughts, misgivings, apprehension and shortcomings as easily as most people simply breathed, and Dean was spared the terrible ignominy of such a decision. He simply stepped past Dean, drawing level, shoulder to shoulder, Dean facing forward to Castiel while God's back was turned to the angel.

"Can You take it back?" Dean asked finally, when it seemed God expected at least some form of response. It was a stupid question, and Dean thought he knew the answer already. _Can You take it _all_ back?_

"I can. But I won't."

"_Why not?"_

"Simple enough reasons," God sighed, and rolled His head on His neck as if to straighten out some stress-induced kink. "On a linear line of thought: because you would never have had that humbling and beautiful relationship with your brother that you did. Never become the man your father first made you, despite the ill will you still harbour towards his memory. Never achieved such a state of purity in your sacrifices."

"Never grew up a hunter? Never had to watch my mom die and my dad lose it year by year? Never see Sam suffer and die, again and again?" Dean threw back, because it was now or never, and he _had_ to know. God, however, seemed unwilling to rise to the bait in some lame defence. He continued.

"Because the normal life that you both never truly had would have driven you apart if it had ever been yours in the first place. Because the trials that you suffered, both of you, and the efforts that you made, simply to _be _there for each other, in every possible way that siblings can be, and beyond, would never have yielded the power to defeat everything that pushed you to the ground and tried to grind you down otherwise. Dean, _don't you see?" _God looked at Dean, turning his head to stare into the golden-green orbs of the elder Winchester standing next to him. "You and Sam have had the world, in its simplest and most exceptional terms, simply because you could not _but_ exist so inextricably locked into each other's souls! A lifetime of mutual understanding and shared love that _no one_ in this universe has _ever_ had, nor ever will. A life spent to such depths of lifelong, driven, fantastical love, adoration and forgiveness that it brings anything and everything to its knees. Had Michael and Lucifer but learnt from you both, instead of whining and professing loyalty with no sympathy to temper it, the Apocalypse might have been averted for entirely different reasons, so great is your example." God smiled, the line of His mouth widening before parting to reveal sparkling, even perfect teeth. Which separated to release a deep chuckle. "I am really, _really_ happy that it was you and Sam that did this. For the world, and for Me."

"I don't understand," Dean managed, still not so stable in the voice department.

"Someday, maybe, you will. I'm not going to say more on this. Just… trust Me when I say that what you and Sam share is something that will outlast even Death. Real and figurative. It was a completely random connection, in the grand scheme of planning, placed across billions upon billions of souls, across uncounted realities in a multi-verse of existences, and it somehow brought everything bearing down to this point." God again spread His hands, stepping outside of Dean's immediate vicinity. The hunter swivelled on his feet, following God's presence with his eyes. "And positively decided the fate of every single universe there is. _That_, Dean, is you and your brother's legacy."

"Wow," was all Dean managed. He didn't know what to feel, or to think. It was humbling, and breath-taking and just so bloody awe-inspiring that he wondered if feeling proud was even remotely justified. He never saw it this way, and he wondered if he would ever muster up enough peace in his life to let it stay at that and simply be grateful. And then he swallowed. He had another question to ask, and he swallowed before he did. "So, was this all a game? Some… bizarro, cosmic game?"

"Not at all. It's not easy, making rules and standing by them, watching everything play out, knowing you can stop it, or change it, even when your children suffer unimaginable horrors to keep existence as it's known from fraying and tearing apart, and to keep on going. No, no games."

"And what about Sam? What about his memories, and the time he spent in Hell? What about his free will in the matter?" Dean waited expectantly, feeling the first real thrill of gut-clogging dread, wondering what God's answer was going to be.

"Come _on_, Dean," God said, smiling again as His hair turned black, His eyes turned golden and He reached out with one hand, the hand forming a fist and lightly punching Dean's shoulder in a rare show of almost playful camaraderie. It barely caused Dean to waver in his stance, but it was a gesture of incredible assurance. "I may _allow_ some taking with one hand, but I certainly don't shirk _giving_ with the other when it's truly merited. I'll let Sam tell you all of it, but I want – I _really _want – you to relax on that part. It may not be what you thought it would be, but it's more than enough to give you peace."

"Is he okay?" Dean asked, voice cracking with hope.

"He will be," God said simply, and Dean felt an entire planet's worth of worry slip from his slumped shoulders. It was like freely breathing air again after drowning for an eternity.

"What about Adam?" Dean asked, still hoping.

"Let's just say that there, just this once, I intervened a bit more… forcefully."

"You took him out of the Cage?" Dean asked, hope making him sound as giddy as a child.

"I changed a lot of things. Needless to say, your half-brother was never truly a part of this particular story, and his continued stay in there was completely unmerited, as were the memories of that time." God winked with one luminous eye.

"Wait, so you…" Dean's eyes widened. "You _Windexed_ his mind?"

"You can't remember what never happened in the first place," God replied. Dean tried to wrap his head around the idea, ran back into his own head to try and see if he remembered anything of the whole fiasco with Adam and Michael, and came up with a blank space, edged with fast-fading ripples of… something.

"My head hurts," Dean admitted with a frown, trying to compute how the setup was working.

"Then give it some rest and stop worrying about the details. I'm good with that, so…" God grinned, and shrugged slightly. "Leave it at that. Your half-brother was never supposed to enter into this equation, even if it was only to satisfy the whims of my archangels. He is safe, and you'll probably see him again, one day, when all of this is over. Really get to know the kid. And yes, he is _still _your half-brother. No sense in changing that, even if, according to the scheme of things, he was only allowed to exist as a backup, should you prove unwilling to play ball."

Dean breathed deep, finally getting his emotions under control. His brothers were safe, and even though he was _dying_ to know what exactly was happening with Sam, he also knew, somehow, that it wasn't bad at all.

And then he remembered Castiel, still frozen, still, probably, unaware of the cosmic conversation taking place at the moment of his supposed triumph and damnation of all things Winchester. It was really scary, Dean admitted quietly and _very deep_ inside his own mind, the levels of power that seemed separate the real God from Castiel; the once-angel was still frozen, and all his supposedly infinite power was neatly sidestepped. The real God didn't even seem all that annoyed or angry, let alone looking like He was breaking a sweat to block the efforts of a bajillion monster souls.

"What about him?" Dean asked, turning around and facing the frozen angel. God pursed His lips, His hair growing silvery and shimmering in the light of the white fire that still danced all around them. His eyes narrowed slightly. "You gonna pull the plug on him?"

"Castiel's fate is not a question of 'if'. It's a matter of 'how'."

"You can't clip his wings?" Dean asked, incredulous. He was rewarded with a true-blue snort.

"Castiel is not the first misguided being to dream himself a master of everything. He won't be the last." The statement was so loaded that Dean swallowed, knowing he had an answer right there, even if God did not deign to voice it directly. The Almighty, walking and talking as if it was the most natural thing to do, looking like a feature-morphing male model, sighed. "Let's clear this blip on the chaos radar up then, shall we?"

Around them, the fire suddenly winked out of existence, leaving not even an afterimage of a blaze in Dean's eyes. Time suddenly resumed its natural progression.

_Coming soon… Conversations with God, Chapter 2: Sam_


	2. Sam

_**A/N 1:**__ So, chapter 2. For some reason I am less impressed with this one than the first, but I suppose it's a matter of perspective. Also, none of my stories have felt the loving touch of any beta, so any mistakes are my own (I am not yet cool enough on FF to access the privilege of having my work edited by my peers, unfortunately.) _

_**A/N 2: **__Before I forget and get sued, somehow, I do not own Supernatural, nor do I seek to. Its way more fun playing in someone else's universe and tweaking a few things. Also far less responsibility required; it's fun being able to disavow any knowledge of how the Winchesters got broken …_

**Chapter 2: Sam**

_Crap._

He knew it was over, _knew it_ the minute Dean recklessly stepped out from behind the rust-pitted door in this godforsaken warehouse in this godforsaken small town of Pack-You-Away-After-Twelve, Arizona. Knew it was too good to be true when they had found leads to Castiel's whereabouts. But no, Sam's _idiot_ of a big brother just couldn't resist one final reach-out to their fallen angel friend, even after Sam had _begged_ him not to do it. But it was Cas, and even if Sam didn't share quite the level of vested interest that Dean did, he wasn't a strange to the pangs of sorrow and upset for the angel gone rogue gone godlike. But simply showing up where Castiel landed, amidst a boatload of demons that were suddenly smashed into oblivion – Crowley was running out of demons, and fast, too – was definitely not the way to go.

_And they call _me_ stubborn._

– _flash of fire, flash of brimstone, flare of rage fuelling and fanning the flames all around him, eating into his face and gouging deep, soul-blackening holes into his cheeks, tearing away his nose as blood spewed like confetti from the ruined hole, as his eyes boiled out of their sockets and the sound of his screaming reached inhuman heights with the concerted level of agony and damnation that only the – _

_No._

He ripped his mind clear of the memory, shaking his head and touching the creaking door to steady himself, both here and in his fractured mind. _Dammit_, this always happened when Dean was in danger, like the world had one last little dagger to twist in Sam's gut. The irony of turning into a human atlas straddling a world that was only torment and horror, as well as the trials of simply drawing breath – in, out, in, out, slowly, surely, evenly, that's it – in the real world, while he was still himself, still _Sam_, only happened when Dean was in danger. As if the world said _fuck you buddy_, _you'll be turning to jello every time your brother _truly, really _needs you. _At times he wanted to laugh, because he knew this was the depth of what life could do to him, short of losing Dean, and at other times, he just wanted to sob his heart out, because the thought of losing Dean was as agonizing a sensation that, somehow, made the memories of the Cage bearable by comparison. A goad was a goad, whether it spurred you on or pulled you forward, and Sam knew the value of channelling efforts to be more productive, whatever the hell fuelled the experiment.

He felt the fire before he saw it, knew it somehow with some displaced sense of foreboding, like when he still had premonitions and psychic abilities. Sometimes he mused he still had them, somehow, in some form, sans demon blood desire and flash-backs of addiction. Having Lucifer feed you your own blood through a straw made of frozen hellfire that ripped tears into your lips as you all but inhaled your own fluids kinda put addiction into perspective, and Sam knew he would never be able to even consider drinking blood of any kind, ever again. So he was free of that, but the Cage warped the mind up to the point where it became hard to disentangle fact from fiction. So Sam ignored Dean's looks when his older brother sometimes caught him shuddering under the impact of another memory, convinced himself that the table and the books and the ancient paraphernalia in Bobby's study _didn't_ sometimes float into the air, Dean's back turned to the sight, when a particularly nasty memory threw Sam for a curveball and tortured his senses to defend himself in any way possible. Or when he _felt_ a witness' pain/horror/guilt before they had even pinpointed the individual as _being_ a witness in the first place. Or caught a stray thought from Dean, when Dean was picking Sam up from the floor, hastily wiping drool from Sam's mouth when the pure horror of _shit, shit, this isn't _real_, it's the goddamned _Cage! ripped him out of the real and back into Adam-as-Michael's clutches, angelic holy fire scalding as it purified down to the slivers of bone that were left of him even as guilt at his little brother being there in the Cage with him tore him a new one. Dean, whose eyes had, since Sam had been reacquainted with his soul, revealed more emotion than ever before in their short but eventful lives. Emotions that Sam's older brother could no longer hide, even when Dean's eyes shuttered to keep Sam out, and his mouth was set in a thin, white-lipped moue of barely contained despair. That was when Sam _knew_ he could read a few thoughts, could practically feel Dean's terror at what Sam's memories were committing.

_But you can also sense/feel/hear/embrace how much he loves you, even when you're momentarily nothing but a twenty-nine-year-old retard that just soiled himself._

– _when both of them have a go at him, they levitate his body – yeah, they reconstituted one for him after his actual body had somehow taken a jaunt out of the Cage, because they were swell cellmates, that way – spread-eagled, naked, into the air between them, taking positions on either side, standing at each hand, staring unimaginable hatred at each other, then at him, before they find common ground in their frustration. The physical torture begins and he feels every exquisite slice of pain, as their collective power is funnelled into filigree-fine, invisible wires of slicing molecules, almost gentle as they pull sections of him apart, painfully separating flesh from bone without so much as a single drop of blood spilling free. Like a specimen sliced in half, life still pumping and flowing, squeezed in between two glass plates, open to an observer's dispassionate eye. His body separates into fifty different chunks, his veins stretching unnaturally through their power, pumping blood to each separated section, a meat-puppet of grotesque proportions. When he feels every single pore, every single pulsing artery and hapless synapse firing on as much pain as is possible, they lock hands over his ruptured ribcage and rip his soul free of its corporeal seat, the white ball of light hovering before it too becomes distended and distorted by their power, flayed by fire and scorched by ice, stretched taut to match the inhumane vagary of the atrocities committed to his body. What is a scream of pain, of anguish, of _Dean! w_hen your very soul is stretched so thin it can double as a violin string, and the devil literally plucks a fiddle made of gold out of thin air, feeding the wire of your unbound essence into the slots and the grooves, pulling suddenly-clawed fingers limned in icy flame across the strings and belting out a horrific ditty of caterwauling glee and – _

_NO!_

He gasps back into reality, and feels the tears streaming down his face. That particular memory was a bad one, and the only defence Sam ever had against it was to practically beat his head against a wall, the floor or even the Impala until he passed out and woke up with the cotton-wool mercy of a concussion and the promise of a monster-sized headache to come. Or, when Dean was present, when Sam could convince himself to snap out of it, feeling his brother's steadfast resolution as an empathic proxy close by, and Sam could remind himself that his soul as a literal fiddle string was also one of the last memories of the Cage. Right before a shadow blocked out the lurid light in that prison, and a presence that dwarfed even the converging might of two pissed-off archangels placed a finger-light, almost loving caress on Sam's soul, snapping it back into a ball of light, dissipating the tangible shell that looked like him but wasn't him, and ripped him upwards before he woke up with a mind full of fleece, inside the panic room, hearing his brother _his brother! a_nd Bobby chatting away.

Sam remembered where he was.

He got to his feet, blinking rapidly as he felt the heat coming from the warehouse, from the metal door that Dean had vanished behind, slamming it shut so that Sam couldn't follow immediately. Sam ripped the door open just in time to see Castiel power up, going super-pissed in half a second flat, golden fire radiating off the all too familiar form without raising a hand, eyes filled with rage and disdain, blue vanishing as the light achieved supersonic fury and exploded outwards, the fire so hot that it turned colourless scant moments before slamming into the walls. Dean was there, standing about thirty feet from Castiel, and he was raising his arm, as if he could ward off that fire by will alone. Sam felt a moment of peace, hoping that the end was quick and final, hoping that he and Dean could finally rest, possibly some place far away from Castiel, and angels, and demons, and _this life_. Then he felt that overpowering surge of protectiveness, of the singular rage that belonged only to a little brother who had to watch as his big brother, the most trusted thing in life itself, was brought low. The thought overwhelmed him, and then the fire tore towards them, running around where Dean was now hunkered on the floor, and Sam closed his eyes, praying to a God he had long since given up hope on, but praying nonetheless, because there was nothing else on this earth, in this world, that could possibly save them now.

"That's the beauty of being God, Sam."

Sam looked to one side, eyes watering in the harsh light and afterimages of the golden fire that had spun from Castiel in all-consuming rage and retribution. Swallowed and frowned deeply when the fire turned pure white, felt his mouth open and work soundlessly as he saw the absolutely still poses of Dean, and beyond him, Castiel, shorn free of the golden glow of Purgatory-fuelled power. The fire was dancing idly, almost lazily, in front of Sam, not even two feet from where he was standing, and he carefully, gingerly, reached a hand towards it. There was no heat radiating off the brilliant, pearlescent flames, and Sam dared a little further, flicking one hand through the fire and coming away unharmed. He expelled a sharp breath, shocked and awed, before looking to his left, to the side of the sliding door that separated this warehouse hangar from the one where Dean and Cas stood immobilized.

The man standing there was as tall as Sam was, and dressed in the closest equivalent of preppy beach-side gear as Sam could think of. No shoes, the rolled-sleeve shirt and long pants comfortable-looking. The man himself was slender and lithe, his face open and chiselled, like a friggin' male model. Eyes that flashed blue, then green, then tan, stared at him, and a Mona Lisa smile was plastered over the mouth. Black hair that was short-cropped, then just barely hinted at a bit of a golden Mohawk, before settling for a few minutes on a won't-pick-you-out-of-a-crowd coif of unrelieved and unremarkable brown.

"Not so much of this world, no."

"Gabriel?" Sam asked, thinking he had seen that secretive quirk of lips before. The man shook his head, and the smile widened.

"Maybe later, and very contritely, I might add. But no, Sam, not Gabriel. My Messenger kinda failed me a bit, but he rallied near the end. Doesn't excuse his actions, and left Me with the not-so-onerous job of delivering a few messages in person."

"God," Sam stated, trying the word on for size. No smirk was forthcoming, and the man nodded slowly. Sam gathered his limbs, trying to affect some pose of humility, or at least anything non-threatening. This was –

– _he fell to his knees before the two archangels, trying to turn away as Lucifer smirked and Michael's grace wilfully tore through Adam's body, hungry to torch Sam's eyes into runny oblivion as –_

"Enough." Sam was ripped away from the Cage, feeling no gasping, ripping and dislocating effort in both mind and body as he did so. He stared at God, knowing that nothing had ever been so kind in the execution of what had just happened, of the mercy of withdrawing quietly from that pain. The word had been simply stated, with the barest hint of authority that a knowing parent might use to scold a beloved child. God was closer now, standing within arm's length of Sam, His eyes now a light golden sheen across a green field. Sam looked away, fearing the judgment in those eyes.

"Please save my brother," Sam managed, before his emotions betrayed him again and he began preparing an endless stream of platitudes, anything to placate the Almighty before him. Begging for Dean's salvation, begging for an iota of hope before he was finally, terminally ended, before the Will of Eternity sent him into oblivion for his crimes.

Felt a stab of irrational hurt when God laughed.

"I've had saints, apostles and prophets with far less self-torment and also far less hygiene standing proud before me, Sam Winchester, and I did not smite them for having their own thoughts and will," God stated. "Or for making a last plea bargain before they thought I would judge them for something trivial."

"Just save him, please," Sam asked, closing his eyes against tears even as he raised his chin, daring to go proudly and fearlessly into the void.

"I will if you open your eyes and look at Me," came the quiet response. Sam's eyes snapped open, and he was staring _right into the apex of forever, the dawn of creation, Alpha of mercy, Omega of forgiveness, a fountain of unfailing grace, venerator of knowledge, omniscient omnipresent omnipotent_ suddenly silent and unchanging light blue gaze of God, staring at Sam from behind the innocuousness of mortality, and threatening nothing so much as having a nice chat with him. "Was that so hard?" Without waiting for an answer, God moved away from Sam, taking a few steps to his right. "Sam, I'm not here to pass judgment on you and Dean. Far from it, actually."

"You've come for Castiel," Sam said, his voice still heavily laden with quivering indecision.

"No, I came because my two champions of the apocalypse-that-could-have-been are faced with an impossible task. An unfair one, at that," He countered, not looking at Sam, instead turning His sights to Castiel.

"I don't… understand."

"You and your brother have done a lot, Sam. Way more than anyone could have asked, and then you did even more. I'm a bit of a sucker for equity and balance, so, short of having to contend with Death himself, or charging… half-cocked against a pretender-god, I'd say 'enough for now'."God turned His head, watching Sam's reaction, looking for anything other than calculation and attempts to make sense of it all. The Almighty sighed, blinking slowly, shaking His head. Then His face turned imperceptibly, unbearably sad, a slight changing of the eyes, a hardening and then a tightening of the lips, as the brows pinched together with concealed pain and, Sam noted, a hint of… age, entered the otherwise ageless face. "I am so very sorry for what you endured under Michael and Lucifer, Sam. I don't think there are words to do it justice."

Sam was still about to rally some form of stubborn defence, but then his heart betrayed him, and he crumpled. His knees gave way and he hit the ground with a silent expulsion of breath, the tears once again flowing from him, wide shoulders shaking with sobs he barely contained and silenced, hands held open and unclenched on his knees. He looked up at God, at the one being in existence that could probably offer condolences and mean it. Even if he still felt apprehensive, and a bit of doubt gnawed at his senses, warning him not to trust. But it was _so_ hard, having no hope, and only bitter faith that seemed ingrained despite your best efforts to get angry, feel rage at the humiliation and constant downfalls. So he took a halting breath and nodded quickly, putting the bravest foot forward, not daring to sound ungrateful.

"I got out, so that's okay," he said through his tears.

"You should never have been there in the first place," God immediately replied, causing Sam to blink. "This confusion, this constant battle for control over your own thoughts and memories, it is unbecoming for someone who had a hand in averting such a crisis." God's voice was growing more forceful, and Sam wondered if it was anger directed at the angels, or _on his behalf_. One was terrifying, the other was humbling, and Sam bit the inside of his lips to keep from bawling unashamedly. "Your brother is safe." Sam's head nearly ripped free of his neck as he found God's gaze again. "Both of them are. And for you…" Sam's mind shuttered, the prelude to the mother of all Cage memories threatening to annihilate an already tenuous grasp on reality. And then…

Then it all grew quiet.

Sam brow wrinkled slightly, as if he was looking for something. _The memories, the sensations… the Cage… _He found it soon enough, but it was fading, as if it meant nothing, as if it was no longer relevant in any form, way or manner.

_The Cage was leaving him._

"Small restitution, but well merited. The memories will have no hold, and in time, you won't even have even an inkling of nightmares. No creature can trigger it again, no being can restore it."

"You put up a wall?" Sam recoiled slightly when God snorted. He tilted back His head and grinned, then looked Sam straight in the eye.

"Did I ever tell you that Death is an amateur? He goes all pompous and condescending, saying that eventually he'll reap Me, too. He says he can't remember how old he is, and that I can't remember the same thing, but it's a lie. His mind, overarching and formidable as it is, cannot fathom the sanctity of eternity, only comprehend its drudgery when there's nothing to strive for but the ending. For the record," and here God leaned forward slightly, as if to impart a secret of epic proportions, "I'm _way_ older, and I'm the one who gave him… _life_, in the first place." Sam found himself smiling a bit, and hastily wiping the tears from his face as he got to his feet. God leaned back, a wide smile on His lips.

"I'm… I'm grateful, _really_, but…" Sam started, and God held up one hand.

"No wall. Walls are flimsy. Windex is better; better to unravel the very thing you're up against, and do it delicately, elegantly, so that it becomes less of a burden and more of a trial that shaped and strengthened, _but is over_ _and done with_. I won't take away the memories, Sam, but I think peace and freedom from them is a great thing to look forward to, and it won't take a whole lifetime either. Like I said, far less than you deserve."

"Can you –"

"Take it all back?" God asked, tilting His head askance. "Of course I can."

"But You won't," Sam breathed out. Sure, he had hoped, but even the slightest peace from his time spent in the Cage was a boon he dared not gainsay, and hoping for more seemed… disrespectful.

"Nope. You see Sam, when the apocalypse was stopped, it should have fallen to Me to reset the timer, extend the way things were, let the relevant parties, orchestrators, spheres, principalities and echelons know what was now expected of them, and how to next proceed. But I saw an opportunity, and so I brought Castiel back, without coming back myself. Not to Heaven, at least. Castiel made a mess of things, but then again, might as well give a five-year-old the keys to the garage and expect him to use the power tools in an informed and precautionary manner."

"You knew this whole time?" Sam asked, thunderstruck. He had a hard time doubting God, not when with nothing more than an expression of intent, the Cage inside his head had started dwindling away, leaving peace and contentment unlike Sam had ever experienced. Not with Jessica, not ever.

"I've been _here_ the whole time. I've been… living as mortals. Plural, yes. But I've kept an eye on things. My angels have screwed the pooch for very selfish reasons, but it had to be done."

"Can I ask why?" Sam queried, keeping his voice carefully free of any sign of annoyance. He knew Dean would probably have been going ape with all of this.

"Of course you can," God replied lightly. "Lessons are the best teachers, Sam. Even bad ones. No lesson teaches humility and respect better than the one that brings you the closest to that edge you should not go over. The difference between you and your brother was that the edge kept moving, and you just kept gravitating towards it, because the natural order was trying to impose itself again and again, and my angels kept throwing backups into the mix because you two were the most likely to end the game for them. Angels are My agents of fate, and when you two showed them a thing or two differently, they decided to try out free will for themselves. Need I go on?"

"I think I understand," Sam said, and he meant it.

"It was a cry for attention, really. They were trying to draw Me out of hiding," God added.

"Why were You hiding?" Sam was feeling more comfortable now. He had never imagined that he would be treated to a chat with God Himself, but then again, he supposed, seven years ago, that nothing could have prepared him for going from Stanford and the simple struggles of normal vs. the hunt, to housing the devil himself and going to hell for the rough equivalent of two centuries. Having God be this amiable, approachable guy with constantly changing features was unexpected, but not unwelcome. Sam had a hard time trying to imagine how this could have played out otherwise, how else a discussion with the originator of existence could have gone.

"I figured there had to be a reason why My Son was so adamant that I vacate the prior stance of merciless smiting in favour of compassion and forgiveness, so I gave it a go. Old Testament Me was all about intimidation, thunder-clad voices striking from the sky and burning bushes. So I tried it this way, and got a grand set of experiences. I can't say I'm disappointed. Not in the least."

"God takes a holiday?" Sam asked, moved to amusement. God shrugged, po-faced.

"Death does it frequently, then creates more work for himself when he has to come back and clean up behind the scenes again after he's been gone for too long. It's his way of spicing up a dreary job. I don't think he ever learns much from his private excursions, apart from where to get the best Bombay tandoori, or sampling the Australian equivalent of a hamburger made out of solid cholesterol." Sam listened, enrapt, amazed and humoured by the almost casual approach that God took to explaining things as monumental as Death personified. It provided a whole new level of perspective. "The last time he threatened to murder a curry, I took off, and I haven't been seen since."

"To live like we do."

"To validate for myself why I was willing to leave the fate of the world and the universe hinging on the imprecise firing of synapses and neural pathways of my youngest and most emotional children." When Sam didn't instantly register, God nodded slowly. "You can freely feel a bit of pride at that accomplishment, Sam. If I hadn't thought you and Dean could pull this off, I would have intervened a long time ago."

"You left the fate of the world –"

"Universe," God interrupted, winking with one eye.

"– to Dean and I?" Sam finished, and felt physically sick. He swallowed almost convulsively when God treated him to the very lightest of deadpan, un-amused frowns.

"Whatever little guilt trip you thought you were going to have about all of your supposed mistakes in life…" God said, raising a cautionary finger. "Do Me a favour and learn to get over it. I mean, I've already forgiven you, and so has Dean, and Adam and pretty much everyone you know."

"Adam?" Sam asked. "He's okay?"

"Like I told Dean; Adam was never meant to feature in this story. The direct version is that my angels got carried away, tweaking fate, and so they allowed Adam to be born, and into the same – more or less – bloodline as you and your brother. You may think that you were made specifically for Lucifer, Sam, but every one of my angels knew that Dean was the one with the stubborn streak, when it comes to you and the fate of the world, so they brought Adam in as backup." When Sam seemed no further away from being ill, God tilted His head and drew the younger Winchester's gaze with His own. "Ever wondered why, when you asked 'Why me?' that everyone always answered 'because it had to be you'?" Sam shook his head slowly, indicating a lack of an answer. "Because it had to be Dean, too. You two have the most humbling, magnificent relationship of all my children, and one of you is never quite the same without the other close by. This was never a bad thing."

"You're right, that _is_ really direct," Sam mused, a bit chilled by the seeming blasé approach that the Almighty had to the engineering of human existence. He was in no way ungrateful for the answer to that burning question, but like most shocking revelations, it had to be appreciated in bits and pieces, over time. Otherwise it was just too overwhelming.

"It never made Adam less valuable, Sam," God stated, and Sam could _feel_ the honest compassion in those words. "All life is precious to me; sacred little extensions of what makes Me… Me."

"We're part of You?"

"In a way. Angels are part of me because they are filled with the grace that governs the universe. Basically it's like the non-corporeal, physical manifestation of Me. Demons are bereft of anything. They are physical essence, forever trapped in physical form, even if they can smoke around and teleport like nobody's business. Incapable of ever attaining something greater again. Beyond redemption, by choice."

"And humans? We've been hearing an awful lot about souls and their power, and… well, Cas is kinda high on it, right about now," Sam explained. He lost the battle to duck around God and see if Castiel was still there, and if Dean was still caught in his pose of almost-defeat. Now that Sam had his full senses flying on all cylinders, unimpeded by Hell, he was a bit upset that such an ignominy was imposed on his brother. So he ducked around, leaning to the side and staring at the scene that was frozen in time in the warehouse space next to them. Surprisingly, Castiel was still standing there, unmoving, encircled by white fire, but Dean was gone. Sam's brows climbed up his forehead, and when he looked at God, His face had a small, bemused smile on it.

"We're having a chat, Dean and I," God explained. "To get back to your question: humans are something new. _Was_ something new, depending on how far you're willing to go back. New, but not improved upon in all the millennia you have existed, not by Me directly. Your souls carry both grace and sin; a little bit of angel, and a little bit of demon, for lack of a better analogy. What makes it a soul is the free will that allows you all to do what you want. It's also why I haven't moved actively in the world in more than two thousand years."

"Because of _our_ free will? I thought You were always with us!" Sam protested the mental image, the guilt of an entire species trying to make itself known to him.

"I was, am and always will be," God said, both by rote and by unquestionable intent. "You have to understand something, Sam: when I allowed human free will to become the governing force on the planet, I had to take a step back. Abide by the restrictions I had set down to allow such a force of collective individuality to exist without combusting spontaneously. Part of being God, Sam, is knowing when to use power, and when not to; when to step in and take charge, and when to let things progress on their own, without guiding and nudging every step of the way. So yeah, humanity's free will damned so many of its members, and also produced the two guys who would teach my angels a lesson in humility, show them why I demanded humans be served with the same fervour that my angels served Me." God spread His arms, hands opening to the sky. "Balance."

"I don't think we're worth all of that," Sam said quietly, eyes suspiciously wet. Dean would _kill_ him right about now, tell him he was really flogging the emo card a bit much this time. This would have been brilliant ammo against Sam, on a good day unimpeded by Cage memories, where there was only bantering and bickering, like the old days. Which, Sam suddenly realized, would probably be the rest of his life. It made him want to grin.

"Good thing _I'm _the judge of what's worthy and what isn't, right?" God said, not unkindly, emphasizing with a knowing smile, and Sam managed a genuine smile of his own this time. "Unfortunately, I have to adjudicate something else, now."

"Cas," Sam said, and he felt he knew just a bit what the angel must have been going through, all of this time. Maybe Sam was no angel, but the road to here had been no less fraught with good intentions and hellish repayment. And Sam could still taste – even after the Cage was fading and the years of mistakes gone by were less daunting, less taxing – the heady, burning sensation of having power, more so than being without it. Of being able to rip demons out of their bodies, of killing them outright. So, Cas had it on a global scale. Sam wondered if God would be as lenient as Dean had ultimately been, when it had finally come down to the wire, and it was sink or swim for the Winchester duo. And then he snorted at the folly of his own thought. Of course God would be lenient. The real question was 'how'.

"Wait," Sam said, frowning slightly, eyes narrowing as his stare turned far-off with calculation. "Adjudicate?"

"Oversee, preside," God contributed.

"You're not going to judge Cas?"

"I'm going to see that he gets judged, but the final verdict…" God shrugged, but Sam didn't miss the very slight element of craftiness in the manner of it. Despite being free of the Cage now, and despite having had this conversation with the Almighty, Sam felt a kernel of dread in his stomach, knowing exactly what the evasive answer meant. Sighing, he rolled his head on his neck once, pulled his shoulders straight and looked ahead. God, still staring at Sam, smiled, and the entire sliding door and wall dividing the warehouse into two large hangars simply evaporated. The white fire died out, leaving a frozen Castiel standing in the middle of the floor.

_Coming soon, Chapter 3: Castiel_

_Please read and review, I would truly be much obliged if you do!_


	3. Castiel

_A/N 1:__Here we are, perhaps one of the most crucial chapters (and possibly the last). My take on how God's chat with Castiel might go, if our favourite angel were to ever meet his maker._

_**A/N 2:**____As stated, I have no beta, so any mistakes are completely my own._

_**Disclaimer:**____I don't own Supernatural, its characters or the phenomenal actors who bring our favourite show to life so brilliantly. But it is really my privilege to play with them, so... on with my own little private corner of the show I don't own, then!_

**Chapter 3: Castiel**

The demons scattered before him.

How could they hope to defy him, stand against him? Did Crowley not learn? Did his cohorts not know what it was that dogged their steps, plagued their fitful, pathetic minds? Was God not to be feared, a new nightmare such as would send the greatest of hell-spawn and angels alike cowering into the deepest pits of their own making?

Like chaff they fled, and like chaff they were cast aside, black smoke tortured free of their hosts, obliterated in furious explosions of bright orange-red light. Particles scattered into a void of no return. A fitting end to eons of depravity. He had pronounced judgment, and there was no gainsaying it. No gainsaying _him_.

He stood victorious within that warehouse, the final tatters of Crowley's ingenuous attempt at cross-temporal dissolution and disbandment fraying into nothingness, the trap flitting away with nothing more than pure intent on Castiel's part. Inventive, if nothing else. Had Crowley been here himself, Castiel would have entertained a discussion of the demon's craftiness, for none have ever been as blatantly cunning and devious as that one. Crowley was the King of Hell, a title well deserved. It was a position that would have been vacated quickly, had Crowley dared show himself, but he never would. Not now, not ever, while Castiel held the power over this planet, this creation.

He breathed in the crisp yet stale-smelling air of the warehouse, glorying in the fury of the souls of perdition snapping through and within him, a mutinous storm held in check by what was left of angelic grace. Had he ever been so weak, so conflicted? So _pathetic?_

The warehouse door slid open behind him, but he did not turn around. He knew Dean would come, eventually. Hoping that Castiel was weakened by the insignificant ventures of a mewling trap set by infantile minds. A chorus of humming energy gathered within him, chomping at the bit of his will, _itching_ to snap free of his skin and lay waste at his command. With a small tweak of thought, he sundered Sam's control over his tenuously tethered mind, let the floodgates of Hell loose inside his head. Castiel heard Dean's cry of outrage, of frustration, at having his beloved brother's peace of mind severed from his fitful control. A momentary delay. Dean would persist, if nothing else. His persistence was grating. His lack of devotion to the new God was insulting, and Sam's current misery would shortly be eclipsed by suffering unlike even Hell or the Cage could produce. Castiel turned around, vowing that surety to himself. Dean swore loudly, then slipped into the warehouse and slid the door shut behind him again, ignoring Sam's rallying cry that demanded he not leave his side, that Dean rethink his reckless desire to treat with Castiel, face to face. He admitted, he had never encountered such a bond before. Once, he'd found it humbling, beautiful, a symbol of the glory of a God he once called Father, but who abandoned them all to this wasteland of free will without restraint. Now, it was an annoyance, a flaw, a weakness that only the severely limited minds of vulnerable mortality could fabricate to appease the chaos of its own imprecise emotions and uncontrollable urges. But Dean wished to speak, despite the grimace marring his face, the twist and turn of dual thoughts; the desire to acquiesce to Sam's plaintive, hell-wracked agony, grappling with the need to speak to me. Did he crave pardon? Clarification? Such things were only given to the true believers, and the Winchesters believed in no God. Not even one who was here, now, in the flesh, rife with power, undeniable in might.

He would beat submission into them both.

"Cas," Dean said, voice gruff, brow furrowed in what was once such a daunting, menacing expression to me. I had feared that censure once, shied away from causing that expression of barely controlled pain and cold fury to cross his face. Once, when trivialities like family had mattered, and the friendship of the Champion of Heaven and even the Pawn of Hell meant more to Castiel than bringing order into the chaos of this existence.

"Did you orchestrate this pitiful assault at Crowley's bidding?" Castiel challenged, his voice calm, his rage held in check. Dean recoiled, eyes narrowing, the disdain for Castiel's pronouncement clear. Insolence…

"What? No!" Dean schooled his face, forcing all negativity from it and raising both hands slowly, almost placating. As if such folly would excuse his disobedience. "I just came to talk."

"You came to beg for your brother's sanity," Castiel said.

"And yours, I think," Dean stated. He drew himself erect with some effort, as if the effects of conversing with the once-angel were taxing him somehow. Castiel allowed a small, minatory smile to stretch his lips, his dark blue eyes going taut with the struggle to contain the desire to rip this insignificant man into nothingness. The gall, the _nerve_…

"You wish to repeat your small pleas of before? Did you think they would become more acceptable as time goes by?" Castiel asked softly.

"Why do this, Cas? Why keep doing this?" Dean asked, voice pained.

"I need not explain myself to you," Castiel replied, and took a single step forward.

"Right, because you're God now, I get it." Castiel felt the first small thrill of Dean's defiance surge into the words, felt that small twinge of uncertainty enter his own mind. Dean became scathing and cocky to hide his pain, mask his own suffering, but it was also a sign that many had misinterpreted before. Lucifer did. Azazel did. It was a signature ploy that masked other intentions. Without warning, Castiel reached towards the hunter, hand clawed, delving deep into Dean's mind, tasting the thoughts and intentions lurking there. Dean cried out, falling to his knees, hands going into spasms as he tried to somehow ward off the invasiveness.

"I will not make the mistakes that others did. Their arrogance betrayed them. They underestimated you, despite your limitations," Castiel uttered, voice growing harder, harsher.

"You know," Dean gasped through the pain, "for a god, you sure are a liar!"

"You _dare_," Castiel said, suddenly, ominously enraged, eyes flaring gold and blue, stepping forward as the words hacked from tight lips. Dean's head tilted back, catching Castiel's gaze.

"You said you would save Sam, when this was over," Dean said, and Castiel thought back to the day when his angelic existence ended, and his new eternity as God began.

"It will never be over," Castiel countered, and felt momentary satisfaction when Dean's eyes flickered, the emotion betraying the hope that had leaned on that promise. Did he think to sway God with such a promise? Did God not command and control, and harness all things to bend to his will? Castiel sneered. "I will give you one last chance to profess your undying –"

"Bite me!" Dean grated out, gasping as Castiel's hold in his mind was released. But the pain was still there, a malevolent touch bestowed in carelessness that swarmed the hunter's mind with agony.

"No… no, a far worse fate awaits those who disobey, who will not bow down and swear allegiance," Castiel said, his arm dropping to his side again. "You are on your knees. Surely the words are not beyond you?" he toyed, feeling heedless cruelty rise within him at the obstinate mortal before him.

"You don't know me very well, do you?" Dean asked, chest heaving with the effort to take in enough breath to keep up his defiance. Castiel was moved to a slight frown, a mere half-second's worth of indecisiveness. Why were those words so… reproving? Why did they leave a fragment of remorse fluttering around his mind?

He crushed the feeling ruthlessly, feeling the monstrous souls within him shudder at the will that commanded them. Felt the resounding susurrus of retaliation, of _need_, to be expressed and harnessed for destruction.

"For the crime of disobedience, and for the audacity to oppose your God," Castiel began, taking in the sight before him. There was grief on the hunter's face, etched into every cell, pore, fibre, _being_, that it was almost unnerving, even as millions of souls flared to hungry heights within Castiel, bursting free of his skin and sending out a shockwave of golden light that turned the concrete around him to molten slag, caused Dean to duck his head below one arm and turn away from his destruction. Castiel did not scream, he did not cry out, he did not give in to his fury at the sight, instead letting the coldness that burned alongside the souls within to spin free, leaving him an island of mute, unfeeling might surrounded by the ravenous maelstrom that rested just beneath his mortal skin. The fire went from golden to colourless within an instant, razor-wire sharp, barbed with the infinitesimal shards of molecular disharmony, screaming and whining through the air like a million enraged felines, dancing oh so slowly and yet so devastatingly fast towards the hunter and his imminent oblivion.

Did he feel remorse? Did he regret crushing the life out of one of the very few creatures that he had ever called a true friend, even family? Would he let himself if he could?

No.

"Which is why this is going to be so painful for you," a voice cut through the anguished dirge of fire and wind. Castiel frowned, his consciousness as deity returning to the task at hand. He was… surprised, to see the full might of his attack suddenly gone, the colourless fire dying out. He also realized belatedly that the flames were limned now in white, an actinic touch of pearlescent glowing before everything was simply silent and untouched by the monstrous offense he had levelled at the Winchesters.

There was a man standing before him, no more than ten feet away. He had an appealing face, what humans would consider handsome and striking, with deep-set, large brown eyes, short brown hair and features that evoked a sense of amicability. Unremarkable clothes, no shoes, and an attitude that Castiel found instantly offensive to his deified sensibilities. He raised a hand, preparing to crush this tall creature before him into nothingness, drawing deep from every single soul that pulsed within his being. The man lifted a hand, an admonishing finger raised, as if that could forestall the onslaught that was being prepared.

"Now, now, Castiel. You wouldn't raise a hand to your Father, would you?"

The fire of all his intentions, all his suppressed thoughts and tattered resolve as nothing more than a distraught angel seeking resolution and direction, drowned the soaring rage he was ready to unleash. Doubt assailed him from every corner, dousing the flames of godly righteousness and leaving him feeling empty and withdrawn. Instantly the cry for blood, for destruction, surged within him once more, and his will rallied to combat whatever folly was being directed against him. The man lowered his arm, and the smile that ran across that face was almost imperceptibly condescending, not touching the warm brown eyes.

"I am God," Castiel stated, mustering as much haughtiness as he could.

"If only saying it could actually make it so," the man replied, and doubt once more filled Castiel's mind. Why could he not smite this upstart? Why was his power, so easy to command and direct, failing him so dramatically? What being in all of creation could possibly stay the wrath of the divine? "Oh, I don't know, perhaps the divine itself?" the man asked again, and Castiel nearly reared away physically, taken aback by the fact that his thoughts had just been filched and presented back to him.

"No," Castiel whispered, when moments of pregnant silence stretched time into infinity, where all thoughts suddenly converged on one… undeniable… unwanted… inescapable realisation.

He was not God.

God was staring at him.

"And bingo was his name. Oh," the man – God – smiled again, this time with something akin to fondness. "You might want to let go of that power now. It won't serve you anymore."

A feeling of blind stubbornness coursed through Castiel then, and he frowned heavily, drawing deep once more, feeling himself come close to painful, physical dissolution as he rallied to throw everything he had at… God. At the absent father who had left Heaven to the follies of wilful archangels and indecision, to bureaucracies and need-to-know travesties, to an attempted apocalypse that saw thousands dead, prayer unanswered, hope crushed. God, Who sighed, rolled His eyes and once more raised His right hand, palm open and facing upwards.

Was it painful, having your skin ripped off, your soul flayed, your grace whittled down into the merest shell of mortality, and feeling every shred of it hurtle like bullets through your flesh? Was that him, screaming as his arms flailed about, rooted as he was to the ground, back arching and head thrown back? The edges of his vision blurred, fading and rippling around on the outside of his periphery, reality smearing like a smudge. And when it was over, when all of five seconds of unimaginable agony had run its course and earthed itself into the ground beneath him, he found himself on his knees, barely keeping his face from planting onto the cold concrete by his hands, splayed across the surface. He raised his head, glowered with both the remembered exaltedness of deification and the sudden, all-encompassing doubt of mortality.

Fear. He hadn't felt it for some time now.

God was still standing in the same pose He had assumed before Castiel had felt that torment blasting through his own body. In His upturned hand floated a dazzling sphere of golden energy, raw and enraged, but contained and controlled as it hung there, suspended inches above the open palm. Castiel got to his feet, feeling shaky and depleted and _tired_, as if he had just expended nearly every shred of grace he –

_Grace._

Castiel delved deep within himself. He knew what that golden orb in God's hand was. It had been inside him, just moments before, giving him so much power that even the greatest of the archangels would have – _had _–cowered and sued for pardon at the sight of him. But instead of finding angelic grace, Castiel found… humanity. Face suddenly edging into horror, eyes widening and mouth opening as if in a soundless scream, he looked at his Father. Who raised His other hand, one finger held aloft, a small sphere of brilliant azure light floating around the fingertip.

"I can take with both hands, Castiel. Whether I _keep _with just one hand is up to you," He said.

"Father –"

"Do not speak just yet, Castiel," God warned, and in those brown eyes Castiel noted a hint of celestial lightning and immemorial wrath, such as not even a hundred golden orbs, each comprised of millions of Purgatory-filched souls, could ever convey. _Or promise_. God raised the hand holding the Purgatory souls higher, and with a momentary flash of blinding power, that even Castiel, now completely human, could sense, vanished into nothingness, and the right hand of God lowered to His side again. "It's time to listen, and perhaps be reasonable, for a change." God took a step to one side, and Castiel shuddered, seeing the two tall men standing behind his Father. In Dean Winchester's face, Castiel found only steely resolve with hints of anger, and on Sam Winchester's face, only soul-damning pity, even the sheen of moisture in eyes that radiated… unwillingness? Castiel felt his heart grow silent, leaving a cavern of guilt and anguish like he had never felt before, not even when his heavenly powers had faded, before he had died at Lucifer's hands, and had been reconstituted anew in the aftermath. No short tenure of humanity had _ever_ prepared him for this kind of emotion. With one shaking hand, he reached up to his face, and felt the thin trail of wetness, running from one eye. "Terrifying, isn't it?"

"I don't understand," Castiel managed, not trusting his voice above its current, soft state just yet.

"I think you understand perfectly, and given a few moments, you will realize it even more," God said. He walked from the gathered party, back turned to them. "You've been human before, Castiel, and your fate is now in question. I doubted you would see reason while the souls of every destroyed monster still flowed through your veins, which is why that power is now locked away again, sealed behind barriers that nothing short of My express say-so will ever release." The inflection and intonation made it clear that eternity was not even a patch of assurance on when such a thing would happen again.

"What is to become of me?" Castiel asked. He already knew the answer, and feared the swift wrath and utter termination that awaited him. In the recesses of his mind, now shorn of power both soul-infused and angelically graced, there was no escaping the truth of his actions, and their damning evidence.

"Who knows?" God said, looking over His shoulder before shrugging. "I Myself will not be the judge in this matter. I am simply here to… adjudicate." Castiel's eyes darted instantly to the two hunters still staring intently at him. Dean was still resolutely trying to bore holes into Castiel's skull, eyes cold and distant with the kind of resentment that Castiel had only seen when the older Winchester had been forced to torture Alistair at – supposedly – Heaven's behest. Sam had turned his head away, lips thinned, jaw taut, and looked as close to shedding frustrated tears as Castiel had ever seen him.

"Why?" Castiel asked at last. "Why do this?"

"Let's lay your transgressions in the open," God said, and folded His hands behind His back. "You have caused a civil war in Heaven, killed several of your brothers and sisters, and dared to murder one of My archangels." God walked a few steps in another direction, eyes distant, voice sonorous and damning. His face went suddenly from speculative to harder scorn, scrutiny entering His facial expression. "You have conspired with the self-entitled King of Hell, used the souls of the faithful at rest to fuel your heedless war engine, ransacked a realm that was, despite its near-infernal purpose, inviolate, to bolster your power beyond what any creature is allowed, and set yourself up as a usurper, a pretender to a throne that, while empty for millennia, was nevertheless held in stewardship for your Father." God turned again, His expression growing almost sad, as he looked Castiel in the face. "You have turned your back on the ones who gave you rest and support, even when all of Heaven and Hell was against you. You have wilfully caused damage to those who could not hope to contest your might, even when they had succeeded at great cost against practically insurmountable odds to get to this point. You have taken up the mantle of Lucifer, and put him to shame for the sheer _magnitude_ of your folly."

"Please, stop…" Castiel whispered brokenly, feeling every rightful accusation like a dagger to the heart, powerless to deny any of them.

"Do you wish Me to judge you?" God asked, and the form He was clad in was suddenly spun about with white fire, expanding like the white-out noise of some devastating explosion, darkening the air and making it heavy with ominous possibility. God was suddenly standing closer to Castiel than the former angel felt comfortable with, staring down at him with a promise of retribution that lent absolute credence to every mutter and hushed whisper of past damnations and millennia-old wrath as Castiel had ever heard. "Let me be clear, My fallen one: for your indiscretions, should _I_ raise My hand against you in judgment, there will not be a single reality that ever was, or could ever be, that will remember you, or remember the touch of your presence and existence. You will be as nothing in the fullness of eternity, and that very word will not even _register_ in the duration of such an edict." Castiel flinched at the utterance, could not meet the face of his Father, and felt more tears spill down his cheeks; commingled humiliation and regret, practically burning the liquid shame in twin trails down his face. He felt God's promised wrath as palpably as he would a thundercloud, hanging just above his head, portentously gravid with menace. Shell-shocked and bereft of words to even defend himself, or plead his own case, he could not but remain silent and expect the judgment of his Father to turn him into irreconcilable motes of scattered molecules.

"But I am not as any of you remember." And just like that, the menace was gone, the thunder withdrawn, as God went on. "I've spent many generations and many lives on this earth, walking among my human children, and I've tasted downfall, mercy and forgiveness. And for the very reason I do not smite now as I would have done in eons past, do I withhold judgment and allow leniency. This falls to the judgment of the two souls you have wronged most." Castiel looked up, and the revelation was both breath-taking and utterly devastating as it rammed home. He looked at the Winchesters, and noted their own surprise. Dean frowned, and then his ever-clear green eyes rounded with astonishment, even as Sam shut his own eyes and lowered his head, the resignation that was previously noted now making sense.

"Wait, what?" Dean asked. "You've got to be kidding me!"

"Dean," Sam cautioned, and it was the same temperance that staid a boatload of older sibling's anger as it had in decades past. Dean deflated somewhat, but the question was still there.

"You want _us_ to judge him?"

"You've heard the alternative," God said.

"It's a bit on the harsh side, don't You think?" Dean countered flippantly, and received an unnoticed eye-roll of mortification from Sam. The youngest Winchester forcefully expelled a sigh, wet his lips and spoke, barely certain if he could meet God's eyes after such a forceful showing of wrath barely reined in.

"Ummm, if we… if we judge Cas, and…"

"If you agree with My verdict, then the punishment will be executed as stated," God said, looking at the younger hunter. "If you judge otherwise, I will abide by what you decide."

For a moment, absolute stillness greeted the pronouncement. It was broken by an overly dramatic if unintended sound of swallowing from Dean.

"So, we're like the hands of God now," the older hunter said slowly, before a grin of pure child-like glee flashed across his face, and he looked at Sam for approval. Sam's face went deadpan, his lips pursing alongside a patented bitch-face and silencing the attempt at lightening the situation, but failing to completely wipe out the humour. Despite the attempted levity though, Dean could not waylay the task before him, and when his eyes found Castiel's face again, they clouded once more, reverting to their resolve. He took a swaggering step closer to the still-kneeling ex-god ex-angel. "Well, it's good that you no longer have that juice pumping through the pipes, I guess. I gotta tell you, it made you one helluva pain in the ass to talk to."

"Dean –"

"I ain't finished yet," Dean snapped, silencing Castiel's attempt at pleading. The older hunter hunkered down before the angel, attempting to draw Castiel's gaze. "First off, you better look at me this time, or I swear…" Reluctantly, and feeling as embarrassed as ever by the tears that still stained his cheeks and threatened to blur his vision, Castiel complied. He tried to find a shred of compassion in Dean's face, but found only sturdy resolve. "Tell me Cas… how the hell am I supposed to get over this one?"

"I know I don't deserve mercy," Castiel began, forcing himself to a measure of calm as best he could. "But when Sam drank the demon blood and freed Lucifer from his cage, you –"

"Only one problem there pal," Dean interrupted again. "You ain't my brother." Castiel's heart fell. "Isn't that what you told me, after you snapped your fingers and killed your real brother… or, one of them at least? Let me think… you said 'I have no family'. Oh, and while we're at it, you really think I can forgive you for bringing down Sam's wall?" Castiel wilted under the intensity of those worse, feeling every stab of anguish that laid itself at his feet and assaulted his mind and conscience. He played with the notion, momentarily, that the question was rhetorical, and once again the abject horror of his impending, total and unremitting demise made itself known alongside the mountain of guilt inside. He realized that Dean was waiting for an actual answer, and sighed, deeply and without hope of forgiveness.

"No," he whispered.

"Dean," Sam started again.

"No, Sam!" Dean retorted angrily.

"Dean!" Sam snapped suddenly, voice pitched into a stubbornness that Dean Winchester could never deny, and the older brother rolled his eyes and looked back over his shoulder. Sam took a single step closer, and as Castiel watched, that interminable, strange and humbling bond that the two Winchesters shared began communicating volumes with the simplest extension of sight, a whole world of communications transferred with nothing so much as the infinitesimal changes eyes meeting eyes that only these two brothers could convey, without using any words. After a few tense moments, Dean's shoulders slumped, but he looked at Castiel again, still unwavering in the anger he felt towards the fallen angel.

"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't let God wipe you from the face of _everything_," Dean grated harshly.

"I have no reason to give."

"Then explain yourself," Sam said, choosing that moment to address Castiel. The once-angel looked at the younger hunter, still seeing both dislike for the proceedings, as well as more decisive inquiry levelled at him.

"What could I possibly say that would make you withhold the harshest of judgments from me?" Castiel asked, defeated.

"You could at least try," Dean said. Castiel sighed, and before he could launch into some form of explanation, Dean interrupted again. "And none of that Raphael-will-destroy-us-all crap either. We know that part."

"You're asking me what I was thinking all this time?"

"And feeling," Sam intoned softly. Castiel sighed, then looked at God, who was still standing to one side, silent and observing, nothing visible on His face to indicate anything else.

"I felt… I felt that I was brought back for a greater reason, a greater purpose. After the first time, I was back, but my power was fading slowly. The second time, after Lucifer, I came back stronger than ever. I could even get into the Cage and bring you out of it, Sam," Castiel said. In his peripheral vision he could see Sam's face grow tight when he brought that up. "I thought that I was brought back to bring new light to the angels, to take charge of Heaven until God could be found. And then…" Castiel hung his head, "then, I felt so alone and outnumbered, when Raphael threatened to undo everything the both of you had fought so hard to stop. I saw no other alternative before me, and God was silent –" it was hard to keep reproach from his voice, and he dared not look at his Father to see what His reaction at that might be "– so I heeded Crowley's words, and made the alliance."

"You lied to us even before Sam came back to me," Dean said, disapproval clear.

"Yes," Castiel admitted, knowing there was no other alternative than the absolute truth. "I could not let you know that I had brought Sam out, and there was never enough time to make a full enquiry as to why he was so cold and distant, before we found out his soul was missing. I could not risk your… ire, by admitting that I had brought Sam back, but _wrong_, and admit that despite my purest intent, I had failed." Sam breathed out slowly, while both Dean and God remained silent. "The war in Heaven was taxing me, even with souls of the damned and the faithful fuelling my efforts. Crowley insisted that I stay away from you both, and eventually, that I kill you before pride debased me in the same way that Lucifer and Michael and Azazel had been brought low, thinking themselves unstoppable." Castiel hung his head, shame now coursing a flood of burning emptiness through his body. "I could not kill you, because you had taught me – both of you – the meaning of free will, and not submitting to destiny even when the outcome was death. For you both, I strove to end the war with Raphael and avert the potential for the apocalypse to ever rise again."

"And then you swallowed a couple 'a million nukes and started tripping balls like nobody's business," Sam stated quietly, pensively, mulling over what Castiel had admitted.

"Why did you bring down Sam's wall, Cas?" Dean asked. "How could you do that, knowing what it would do to him, to _us_?"

"For the very reason that bringing down Sam's wall would immobilize you both," Castiel said, and, remembering Dean's demand, forced himself, broken and laid bare before God and the only real human family he had ever had, to look the older Winchester in the eye. "I convinced myself that every precaution needed to be taken, that underestimating you at any moment could mean my downfall." Dean actually smirked at that, momentarily sending his eyes heavenward at the unwitting compliment. Castiel continued. "So I did the only thing that I knew would send you both reeling."

"But it didn't work, did it?" Sam asked. "You think we didn't learn from our mistakes, Cas?" For the first time since the two Winchesters and God had entered the immediate vicinity, Castiel detected growing anger in the younger hunter's voice. Strange, how Sam could remain unmoved at the admission of why Castiel brought down the wall inside his head, but become aggravated when he and his brother's integrity was put to the question in any way. It would never cease to amaze him, the intricacy and complexity of their brotherhood, Castiel mused briefly to himself. "My brother knew what he had to do. He knew that if I could, I would find him and help him."

"Which allowed Dean to attempt to stop you without throwing all caution to the wind in favour of Sam's wellbeing, like he might have before, to the exclusion of all else," God interjected, a small smile in place. "So, Castiel. Do you wish to say anything else?"

Castiel was broken. He was defeated in spirit, depleted in resolve, undone by his compounded failures and aware of every single well-intentioned effort that had still brought him to this humiliating precipice, this edge of utter destruction and damnation that would surely end him. He mustered what was left of whatever human resolution powered his humbled form, and looked each Winchester in the eye.

"There are no words. I won't even try to convey it, but I _am_ sorry. I wish that I could have done things differently, that I did not… fall for Crowley's whispers and lies."

"You should have come to me, Cas," Dean said, and his voice sounded hoarse now, as if the statement cost him. "We would have figured something out."

"I know," Castiel replied brokenly. "But I was… proud, and afraid, and _embarrassed_."

"To ask help from a human?" Dean challenged, and next to him, Sam expelled his breath in a huff, shaking his head slowly.

"To bring you back into the hunt," Castiel corrected.

"That didn't stop you from bringing Sam back as a soulless _thing_!" Dean snapped. "Dammit Cas, no matter what I was doing, no matter that I was out, just the fact that my brother was walking around and no longer completely in Hell should have told you that I wouldn't have stayed gone anyway!" Castiel wanted to interrupt, wanted to beg forgiveness in any possible way, but Dean had been set off, and he was building up steam. "Didn't you learn _anything_?" Dean's face was stonily imploring, eyes flashing anger, disbelief at Castiel's blind stupidity. The ex-angel couldn't hold that gaze for long, and he narrowed his eyes, chapped lips thinning with nameless pain and anxiety.

"Do you know why I brought you back two times, Castiel?" God asked, intervening once more. Castiel didn't know why, and knew he did not deserve any such succour, but he was almost grateful that his… God, had stepped in at that moment. Anything, strangely enough, to not look Dean in the eye and see his own faults laid bare, or to see Sam's pained anguish at the entire situation damning him with those expressive, soulful, _soul-filled _eyes. God continued. "Both times were a test." Castiel nodded, having surmised as much. "The first time, I _wanted_ you to slowly lose your power as an angel, to slowly but surely feel every punishment that My human children had to endure for the reckless selfishness wrought by the Heavenly Host. For you to learn, alongside the Winchesters, what it meant to struggle for something, even die for something, when everything was against you." God paused, and for a moment, just a single moment, there was more than just careful judgment in His eyes. Castiel could almost feel the imperceptible pride in God's voice. "The first time, you passed the test. You were destroyed, but for your efforts, for your success, I brought you back, and not just as a human, but as a fully empowered angel once more, the might of the Holy Host once again yours to enjoy and experience." The Winchesters were silent now. Dean was listening attentively, hushed as his eyes roved everywhere but at the conversation before him, mind calculating. Sam was similarly caught in a stance of tallying variables, nodding slightly each time something clicked and made sense. Castiel waited, not daring to interrupt. To listen to God give instruction, to give revelation, was a privilege only four archangels had ever had the luxury of experiencing directly. Ironic, now that, moments before absolute termination, Castiel would join those once-hallowed and august ranks. God's face once more grew neutral, the prior sense of whatever joy was derived from Castiel's success evaporating as He went on. "But then, your lessons failed you. You were blinded by need, knowing only the greater power I had given you upon your restoration. You gave in to pride, seeing it as righteousness, the might to right wrongs, when you ripped Sam's body from the Cage, heedless of your own limitations, thinking yourself, alone, capable of wresting a soul from the hands of my two most powerful angelic children, even bound and contained as they were. Pride blinded you to the humility of asking Dean for help, instead turning to the insidious whispers of a demon. How ironic a lapse, that _an angel of the Lord_ would give in to the wiles of the damned! Power, Castiel. That was your downfall. Pride was merely the next step, and hunger for more, after that." Castiel looked at the Winchesters as God continued. He noticed the slight flinch from Sam, mentally noted the stark similarities between himself and the younger Winchester's own dark path of before.

It was then that Castiel realized the reason for his second return. He bowed his head, breath rattling from his chest, no longer caring that he was debased, in tears, ashamed beyond any measure of explanation. Eyes liquid and limned in moisture, he sniffed as he looked at God.

"I should have remained by their side," Castiel said, raising one shaking hand in the direction of the Winchesters before dropping it to his side. "You wished me to learn the limits of what You restored in me, but to have more power tempered by greater humility, deeper service. To keep _learning._" And God's face lit up with the first smile He had truly spared for His fallen angel, a brilliant gesture that spoke of realizations and revelations noticed and accepted. If possible, it damned Castiel even more, and his eyes crinkled with the barely suppressed effort of holding back a sob. "Why did You not answer me, in that park, when I called for You? Why did You not stop me then?"

"Because when you called to Me from that lonely park bench, surrounded by snow, there had still been time for redemption. When Dean had warned you, time and time again, before you opened yourself to the corrupting, warping influence of the souls of Purgatory, there was still time. But you refused, and denied, blinded by your own desires, fanned by Crowley, boosted by the souls, validated by the fact that you, like all My angels, thought Me gone forever. You lost faith, and instead, sought an alternative."

Now there was only silence. Castiel closed his eyes, his stooped body heaving and shivering with the effort of holding back from breaking down utterly. He could not meet God's eyes, dared not look for the sorrow that the last words from the Almighty would have etched into that immaculate face. He waited for a few moments longer, and then prepared to look at the two humans he had wronged most, ready to face his final judgment. Learn, God had said. So Castiel retraced all his steps, mused on past transgressions and thoughts, and remembered how he had pored over that one event, had gone back after it had transpired. Looked at it all, free of the restraint of time, free in the fluid flow of multi-directional temporal space, capable of analysing in silence, undisturbed, how things had gone down. Noted every expression, every word, every aspect, even his own explosive splattering of blood, bone and fluids, and his reconstitution afterward, when the brothers had been sundered, at that time seemingly forever. Of how the Winchesters had been, at last, as they each accepted their own lot, made peace with their decisions, and stood by them, there at the side of the hole opening into the Cage. Of Dean's broken body, leaning against the Impala, his efforts stayed both by his physical disability and the fact that he had promised Sam not to interfere, a promise made in total anguish but also total trust. And Sam, who had, right at the edge of that screaming pit, spread his arms and surrendered to the only true life-determining decision that had ever really been his own to make, in his short existence, and then prepared for an eternity of unimaginable torment, for the sake of his brother, and the world.

Resolve was a strange thing, when it blossomed in the face of absolute death. Castiel, once-god, once-angel, fully human, steeled himself, drawing on human resources with human effort, gathering on limited faculties and forcing his mind, body, heart and soul to submit to the choices before him. There were two choices: face his end like a craven coward, suing for pardon in shame and debasement, or hold his head high, own his failures and accept his fate. And so he got to his feet, his legs cramped from the pose he had endured, his balance shot with the loss of all-consuming power that had, before, made any physical form a trivial upkeep. As a human, as a fallen soldier, he looked the Winchesters in the eye, then turned to God.

"I am ready," he said.

"Are you ready?" God asked, turning to Dean and Sam.

"What happens if we don't want Cas to die?" Sam asked softly. Castiel's eyes widened. Sam looked imploringly at God, eyes now liquid with emotion, and Castiel did not think it possible to be so humbled by such a simple question. Dean slowly turned his head, his own eyes softer now, his gestures now removed from the fiery anger that had threatened to turn into physical violence. Castiel looked at God, hoped against all hope that he could still call Him Father.

"What would you want to happen to him?" God asked.

"Give him back his grace," Dean said gruffly. "Whatever the hell he did, I don't think it's worth a total wipe-out."

"We forgive him," Sam stated simply, and nodded once, cementing the conviction. "He made mistakes, we all did."

"Castiel's mistakes were more far-reaching than most," God cautioned, but Castiel could not find a trace of any desire in God's voice that said that He wanted Castiel destroyed outright and completely, despite the Winchesters' wishes.

"He had free will, and he screwed up. Isn't that the same thing, in the end, for all of us? Each to our own ability?" Sam replied earnestly. There was a duality there, a shared sense of commiseration that, despite being the one brought lowest by Castiel's actions, he now extended to the mortified ex-angel. God looked at Castiel.

"Would you return to the fold as an angel? Will you submit to My Will as you did before, even when you had never seen Me? Never known me as Lucifer, Michael, Raphael and Gabriel did? Will you strive to set right what your actions have wrought, both in Heaven and on earth? Will you forswear all designs to the stewardship and mastery of creation and obey?" Castiel let the questions sink in, and it was in no small part due to a desire to escape an eternal voiding of his existence, but also the utter desire to make restitution and claim redemption, that he nodded.

"Yes."

"Will you maintain your free will, and teach my angels – your brethren – as you have learnt, and will continue to learn? Will you be humble, and merciful, and forgiving, and accepting? Will you remain vigilant over these boys as you did before, in the times ahead?"

It was mercy, pure and simple. All wrath had fled the countenance of the Almighty, all designs to end Castiel were evaporating as if they were never there in the first place, and Castiel fell to his knees, head bowed, arms spread in supplication and surrender, eyes closed, and said,

"Yes."

_TBC? I have more thoughts, but would they merit another chapter?_


	4. Bobby

_**A/N 1: **__Thank you to everyone who took the time to read and review this story. Your comments and constructive criticism was welcome, and always will be! Hope this chapter passes muster, and I know I keep threatening with an ending, but hey, it seems I'm not done just yet. Enjoy!_

_**Disclaimer: **__Nope, don't own it, any of it. Just this little corner of fandom where I get to play in a very large sandbox. Yay!_

**Chapter 4: Bobby**

Winchesters.

Idjits, the lot of them. Flying half-assed at everything that looked threatening, with nary a thought for the practical side of things. Sure, they seemed to have God's own luck when it came to saving the day, and they probably had a hefty tab of Hail Mary passes that's building on an equally hefty tab somewhere. And yeah, they had some pretty shitty luck when it came to the personal fallout, but by now, it was a well-known fact that Winchesters would save the day, in their own way and on their own terms. Must be why Heaven still feared them, and Hell would forever hate them. Also why Bobby Singer was turning greyer each year, and prematurely too.

He looked at his face in the ancient mirror perched on the ancient dresser that stood in his darkened bedroom. His face was more lined, his beard was shot with streaks of silver and his hair, despite being recently washed and clean, still had the greasy vibe to it that never seemed to betray him as anything but a red-neck, crotchety old drunk with way too much scrap metal and junk in his backyard. Fortunately, Bobby Singer never really minded what people said about him. The whole town thought of him as a reclusive old reprobate, even if a lot of them now gave him grudging respect as well. Sure, he skirted the edges of 'dark dealings with dark forces', but you couldn't deny his usefulness when zombies roamed the streets and then had their heads blown off by 'just old Bobby Singer, the town drunk.' Puts things in perspective, when that happens, and although even more people now gave him a wide berth when he missioned into town, as many people now tipped their hats or heads in grudging respect and recognition, then left it there, no further questions asked.

So he put on his trusty cap, made sure he was at least presentable enough to not cause an upset of sorts if anyone were to grace his doorstep, and began his day. It would be another day at the phones, another day of research and hunter's helper and coffee right from the pits of hell. Just one more day of stresses that no man his age should have had to worry about, but he revelled in it, because he didn't know how to do anything else. Even the idea of simply, quietly switching to full-time fixer-upper and mechanic was pointless; not with what Bobby Singer knew was out there.

"Idjits," he muttered again. His thoughts always went to his boys. And of course they were _his_ boys. Not even old grandpa Campbell could have convinced him otherwise, and Bobby Singer always wondered what the great John Winchester might have said, if he could see Bobby, Dean and Sam go at life in their own disjointed, dysfunctional but dependable manner, right now. "Shoulda called by now."

He had been dead set – as usual – against the idea of the boys going after Castiel. It had been a mercy that the new God had been so mentally preoccupied with smiting the holy hell out of Raphael's followers that he hadn't pressed the issue of servitude, there in that complex where Crowley had once again hightailed it, and Raphael had bit it. So now, months after, with no angry tax-accountant-seeming God blowing down the house and tearing everyone a new set of orifices, the boys had finally found a way to track down the ex-angel, and, as usual, had gone flying off after him. No amount of cooing and coercing, brow-beating and guilt trips, had swayed Dean Winchester, and Sam had simply looked on with longsuffering that soon after turned into real suffering. But after a while, when Dean had mellowed a bit, without giving an inch and making any promises of holding back on the 'find Cas and talk to him' gig, there had been a few days of reason. Sam had taken another turn for the worst, his mind suffering onslaught after onslaught of Cage memories and turning him into a catatonic vegetable that needed an IV drip, catheter and several changes of clothes over the course of a few days. Dean had held off on going after their once-angelic friend, staying by Sam's side, like he always did, doing things for his brother that no one but the most dedicated hospice-care nurses and the like would consider doing. Bobby couldn't stand it, couldn't stand how Dean stoically cleaned his brother up, wiped the drool from Sam's mouth and gave him sponge baths – sponge baths, for Pete's sake! – when the unresponsive younger Winchester remained locked inside his own head, too big to move physically from the cot in the panic room, too out of it to care about the usual necessities of everyday living. It broke Bobby's heart, because Dean did it as naturally and willingly as a pro, without being asked and without complaining.

And then Sam would wake up, and in a manner, so would Dean, and things would go back to the relative state of normal that was their lot in life these days. The kid would smile shyly, ask what had happened in the last few days that he was out – several months spent reliving unimaginable Hell – and try to pick up the pieces, making himself as small as possible and sticking close to either Dean or Bobby while his mind tried to reintegrate into reality around him. God, Bobby loved those boys, but he didn't know how much more of this he could take. He'd never throw them out, but it was slow and certain torture, all on its own, watching two healthy young men wasting away under the weight of a world that just didn't want to stay saved and let the two of them off the hook long enough to find some semblance of a life they deserved to live for themselves. Worse, Sam seemed to bounce right back into stride, carefully asking after the progress made in finding Cas, and Dean, easily reading into the way Sam gave him that free pass for having taken care of him, pounced eagerly on the prospect of piling them into the Impala and charging off, doing what they did best. And they did just that, finding a sudden spike in massive demon activities, putting two and two together on some scheme of Crowley's, no doubt, to draw Castiel's ire and do God knows what, and off they went, promising to call Bobby once they'd made contact. Idjits, you called _before_ you made contact, 'specially if there mightn't _be_ an after, Bobby had thought.

Who was he kidding? Those boys always seemed to find an after, even if it meant one of them went to hell while the other stayed behind and imploded. They always came back, somehow.

Except that this time, there were no calls. It had been days since the supposed showdown of whatever had gone down, and no doubt Castiel had done the dutiful part of smiting every demonic sonuvabitch into bits. The question was, had the Winchesters been at ground zero? And if so, what had been the outcome, there? Bobby had a phone, dammit, he had several, but he couldn't find it in himself to pick it up and try. On the off chance that he might hear Dean or Sam's voices, weary but alive, or on the probability that he would hear static, or that irritating service provider wench's voice telling him that the number was disconnected, or could not be found. It was a knife's edge of worry, and Bobby didn't know if he had the courage just yet to try and find out.

He left his bedroom and trudged down the stairs, feeling the emptiness of his house reflect the empty, hollow feeling that was growing daily in the pit of his stomach. It was slowly getting warmer again, the bite of winter fleeing South Dakota and giving way to the eventual onset of spring, but Bobby still kept the fireplace in his study well stocked and burning through the night. The house was never really warm, but then again Bobby never really used all of it, so that didn't faze him. No, the cold he felt was from something else entirely.

He walked into the kitchen and opened the fridge door, rummaging around in there for something to cook up while he spent the day pretending to be all sorts of respectable and feared heads of national organisations. He always volunteered to do the phones when he was worried, because it kept his head on straight and let him concentrate on anything but whatever damned-fool escapade Sam and Dean had launched into. It also kept him within immediate vicinity of taking that call when one of his boys finally broke radio silence. The bottle of rotgut was already beckoning from the side, and the idea of burning a hole into his stomach, his sinuses and his concentration with a nice batch of chilli on the side was suddenly appealing as well, so he took what he needed and aimed for the stove.

"No need for any of that," an articulate voice said from behind him, and Bobby spun around, the hair on the back of his neck rising like the hackles on a pissed-off terrier. He knew that voice, knew it like he knew his own name and every little thing of the supernatural that was etched into his mind. He had never thought to hear it again, and he had sure as hell hoped he never had to. But hope was neither here nor there, because there he sat.

Death, the Horseman, his emaciated, sunken features moulded like a waxen doll's, all drawing attention to the dark, impenetrable eyes. Immaculately clad in a black suit, the mother-of-pearl-inlaid head of his cane leaning against the side of a rickety chair, and a spread of garish paper wrappers and little baskets filled with greasy food and all sorts of delicious gut-clogging smells decked out on the sturdy kitchen table. Bobby swallowed, robbed of words and questions, mind fizzling with reasons and possibilities. He was drawn up short when he noticed that Death was not alone at the table. There was another man there, tall like a Winchester, but clothed in comfortable, simple gear, wearing no shoes and leaning back, at ease, in a chair that looked barely capable of supporting the lithe, sinewy frame. The guy was good-looking, Bobby admitted, like he had just walked out the door of a blockbuster film's makeup trailer. All chiselled features, easy blue eyes and a mop of stylishly unruly golden hair. When Bobby looked at him, the man smiled easily, showing a hint of pearly whites.

"Bobby Singer, a pleasure," the man said, and his voice was deep but youthful. "Please, have a seat."

"Him I know," Bobby found his voice at last, inclining his grizzled head at Death, who took that moment to pucker shrunken lips around the straw of whatever fizzy brew he had in that huge Styrofoam cup, black eyes glittering their own acknowledgement of Bobby's words.

"I am God," the man replied, smile in place, no hint of bull anywhere in sight.

There was a brief moment of silence while Bobby digested those three words. His head was back in rotation, and his faculties were fine, but he wondered what range of emotion was called for when you heard someone say that. Also, Death simply deposited the cup on the table, tilted his head back and his chin up, and leaned into the chair he was seated on.

"Well, he ain't disagreein' with ya, so…" Bobby left the statement hanging there, and took a step closer to the table. Was he feeling awe? Fear? Terror unimaginable? He tried to remember everything he had done so far today, every gesture and action, even if it was as simple as taking a pee, or putting on clothes. Was he even awake yet, or was this just one extremely vivid dream?

"Sadly, no," Death enunciated in his measured British accent. "Please," the Horseman repeated, and one bony hand indicated the remaining chair. Bobby, not taking his eyes off the proceedings, walked closer slowly, feeling like an intruder in his own damned kitchen, and then slid into the chair, hands on his knees, back straight.

"So… what's this about?" Bobby asked, for lack of anything else. The usual spiel of queries he had so often wondered at, if one ever got the chance to converse with God or Death in person, failed spectacularly to present itself.

"Closure, of sorts," God replied evenly, pinning Bobby with a stare that was hardly godly. Bobby had expected tempests and thunder, not personable discussion. "Maybe two thousand years ago," God said, and Bobby knew his thoughts had been all the more obvious.

"Sorry about that," he muttered slowly, softly, trying to maintain a semblance of respectfulness. He could have done with a manual on conversing with almighty powers right about then.

"Would you care for a corndog?" Death supplied, indicating one of the red-and-blue wrappers lying in its little plastic cradle, halfway between Bobby and the Horseman.

"No, thanks," Bobby replied carefully.

"I insist," Death returned, the slightest hint of steel entering the otherwise unhurried voice.

"I'm trying to cut down on cholesterol," Bobby explained, hoping the embodiment of the end would not crush him for such successive refusals.

"He's always like this, peddling this child-like enjoyment of simple foods that kill in the long run," God added, eyes twinkling almost merrily, and neatly defusing the notes of tension. Death's face betrayed nothing but a small twinge of… was it embarrassment? Then the Horseman tilted his head to one side, eyes still fixed on Bobby's face.

"Like eating irony," he said, and then summarily took a bite out of his own corndog, chewing politely and slowly in the same way that he delivered his words.

"He also smokes on weekends," God said, huffing a small snort of amusement, but then he leaned forward. "I'm sure you have a lot of questions, Bobby Singer. Don't let my friend here distract you, no harm will befall you."

"I seem to have misplaced my book with questions that I would ask You," Bobby admitted, feeling the first tendrils of hysteria creep up on him, and then irrationally replying with sarcasm. He swallowed.

"You see?" Death asked, not moving a muscle, his eyes canting sideways to God. "No respect."

"If you're going to sit there being a constantly intimidating dark cloud, I'm sure Mr Singer and I won't keep you," God replied, His voice not going over the still candid and unperturbed cant, looking pointedly at Death. Who continued chewing, then swallowing down the mouthful with a slurp of soda.

"Are the boys okay?" Bobby blurted, the slow panic of seeing the strange standoffish banter of the two most powerful beings in creation spurring the outburst.

"They're fine now. On their way back here, actually," God said. Before Bobby could shift his attention from antsy to fuming at the Winchesters' lack of communication, God continued. "They are no doubt a bit… shell-shocked at what happened."

"What happened?"

"Castiel attempted to smite, and was re-educated."

"Come again?"

"I took umbrage at one of my own angels taking matters this far, and since Gabriel is always too blasé about his delivery, not to mention at that point patently incapable of withstanding the power of Purgatory at Castiel's fingertips, I had to intervene more forcefully," God stated. "Let's just say you and I share a similar soft spot for our two heroes of the apocalypse." Bobby released his breath slowly, then bowed his head, removed his cap and rubbed a shaking hand down his face.

"Would… would you mind explaining that to me?" Bobby asked, relief replacing hysteria with giddiness.

"Not at all," God replied, smiling. As Bobby watched, the blue eyes darkened into moss green, the features softened somewhat and the hairdo lengthened into ear-length bangs with a carefully parted fringe. "I found it a monstrously unfair situation, given that Castiel was completely off the reservation with his little power trip. So I short-circuited his buzz, returned the souls to sender and closed off Purgatory from prying intent for the foreseeable future."

"And Cas, is he…" Bobby found that, despite his general dislike and fear of the ex-angel, he didn't know if he was actually okay with having the guy blasted into oblivion.

"Making his way to Heaven to redress his indiscretions. I left his fate to Sam and Dean's say-so." Bobby knew he was goggling at that simple statement. God had given the boys the power of life and death over _Castiel_? More, those two Idjits had seemingly decided to vote against…

"What would have happened if the boys had voted him off the island?" Bobby asked.

"Full omni-dimensional atomization," Death intoned leadenly, and a pitcher of soda materialized by his elbow, which he carefully lifted to refill his cup.

"But, in true Winchester style, all is now forgiven, after a very emotional session of truth, admission and learning," God added. "I have to say, those two are probably the best thing that's ever happened to this reality. It's really refreshing, setting things in motion and seeing the benefits of a monumental decision still yielding the most favourable outcome."

"He's not following," Death said, and Bobby was sorely tempted to throw a patented glare at the Horseman, even if it would probably have guaranteed the old hunter some form of punishment in the future.

"Drink your soda and stop pre-empting everything. It's uncalled for and severely boring of you," God said, not sounding particularly reproving, but Death complied, if a bit fussily, by the looks of it. "Fact is, Sam and Dean were perfectly placed in the destined scheme of things, even with the gift of free will governing their every action, to avert any supernatural crisis that can touch this world. The long and short of it is that it would always have been down to the two of them to sort this out. No one else would have been able to do it any better."

"And all it cost was everything they had," Bobby said, and he failed to keep from sounding reproving. Consequences be damned. God merely shrugged, and His features changed once more. Bobby wondered why that was. "You threw those two boys to the wolves and expected miracles of 'em!"

"For my human children, it's always a struggle to not grow frustrated and angry at their lot in life. When it's down to the wire, life does not seem particularly easy, or kind. It's filled with uncertainty, death, disaster and failure, which is why people instantly cry foul when they are disappointed by the outcome of certain events, be it a small personal matter, or a globally encompassing one. You see things in black and white; win-win, or lose-lose."

"Force o' habit," Bobby griped.

"Life's not that simple, Bobby," God returned, and His eyes turned a kindly tan colour. "You ever hear the saying 'God never allows more suffering than you can manage'?" Bobby nodded, wondering if he would like where this was going. "It's a clichéd truth. Let's put it this way: Sam and Dean Winchester were trained from their earliest days to hunt monsters, slay evil and save the lives of others. They had no one but themselves and their earthly fathers to turn to, to rely on, and when John sacrificed his life and soul to save Dean, the boys had no one but themselves to rely on, and eventually, you." God actually winked at Bobby, and the old hunter shifted slightly in his seat, not sure what to make of that gesture. "Without that training, without that life, they would never have achieved the pure generosity of soul, the incontrovertible strength of their bond. Life spent away from the shadows, in full view, with no warning or preparation, would have driven them apart years ago. They needed that training, that life of hunting from an early age, that dependence on each other, to strengthen their bond, to forge it into a might so powerful that nothing could ultimately break or defeat it, defeat _them_."

"You're saying that all that suffering, all that hardship, was _meant to be?"_ Bobby practically spat the words, beard quivering.

"Would you have had me intervene every step of the way? Create a mindless utopia of drones that suffered no fear, savoured no love, experienced no pain and learnt nothing except to indulge in mindless fantasies that never satisfied?" God asked softly, and Bobby's tirade died a small death. "Bobby, has it never occurred to you that the very events that cause suffering in each and every human life on this planet, also has the counteracting effect of producing the most beautiful rewards and experiences that shape life itself into something worth fighting, even worth dying for, if only people would apply their minds and hearts to see beyond the spirit of that moment? There was a reason – there was _always_ a reason, for Me granting free will and choice to humanity. To govern itself and make its own path, even when I _wept_ at the injustices and travesties that you've committed against yourselves and others. To learn from your mistakes and teach others of your victories, to forge yourselves into something that is the envy of all my creations." Bobby listened, strangely enrapt and moved by the impassioned exposé. "Bobby, where do you think I have been all this time?" Bobby frowned, perplexed at the question, and then he actually thought about it. It had been a question that had plagued Cas, Sam, Dean and his own mind since the apocalypse first kicked off. Heck, Cas had even spent his flagging powers searching practically non-stop for the Guy, and here He was, and He was actually inviting Bobby to ask Him about it.

"I have no idea," Bobby said. It was the simplest response, because it was true, so he went with it.

"Remarkably, neither did I," Death said, not meeting either Bobby or God's eyes.

"_You_ didn't know where He was?" Bobby asked, incredulous. Death shrugged, refusing to look embarrassed.

"Oh he had an idea, but he had no idea of how to get Me out in the open," God clarified, no trace of pride or accomplishment in His voice. "Despite all his power, Death would not throw caution to the wind and break the very systems he embodied. That would have involved killing every living thing on this planet, on every possible dimension and reality of it."

"_What?"_

"I was here, Bobby," God said, and His full gaze caught and held the aged hunter's eyes, broadcasting a world of compassion the likes of which Bobby had only seen hints of, mostly in Sam and Dean's eyes when they weren't so damned set on hiding what they felt and pushing it down where it caused less immediate worries. "Living on earth, as many individuals. Yes, plural. Feeling every little thing that implied what it was to be human. Living, dying, and everything in between. So for Death to find Me, he would have had to kill all of humanity."

"And he didn't do that _why?" _Bobby asked. He could hardly understand why such a thing – simple to the extreme for creatures this powerful – would have given pause.

"Because it was still no guarantee that I would have appeared," God said. "For the record," and here, He turned His upper body in Death's direction, fixing the Horseman with a determined cast to his face. "I would have retired you long ago if you had even considered a total wipe-out."

"You called his _bluff?_" Bobby was almost beside himself, the only thing keeping him from going into full tirade the fact that it would be like a gnat expressing its annoyance to a man armed with a fumigation gun. And then something else struck him, and the analogy floundered. _"_Wait, You're... you two are _explaining_ yourselves to me?" Bobby asked, mounting horror and shock going into full-blown thunderstruck. "_Why?"_

"Because you, Bobby, are for lack of a better term, the Archivist. You are the most knowledgeable hunter currently in existence. The most informatively capable."

"So tell this little sob st –" Bobby caught himself flushing bright red at what he almost said, and was intensely grateful when God gave nothing away at the almost-utterance. "Tell it to Chuck!"

"Chuck is in Heaven." God said nonchalantly. "The reward for being a prophet of the Lord, once you've done your stint; instant transformation from mortal to faithful soul at rest, no stopovers." There was a flicker of annoyance flashing across Death's face, but within the same second the Horseman's craggy features were schooled once more in polite neutrality. "No, Bobby, this is not a tale for the masses. It's validation for the events that have transpired, most of it without anyone, not even the hunter community, fully aware of it."

"And you want me to _publish_?"

"No. I want you to _record_. That's all. You've thought about it, haven't you?" God asked, eyes narrowing with non-threatening scrutiny. "Not exactly memoirs, but definitely a helping hand for hunters to come. It's a worthy cause, and you will do well at it, I think." Bobby didn't know if he felt grateful for the praise, or ever so slightly stunned that anyone knew he had ever intended to do something like it. Of course, God _would _know, so Bobby simply shrugged his acceptance.

"And the punch line?" Bobby asked, taking the bait, growing uncomfortable under the praising inspection. He was actually damned curious, despite his initial response. He'd never expected a visit from the Almighty, or a _second_ visit from Death himself, let alone found himself the recipient of what the hell had actually happened way up on the ladder while humanity's handful of staunch heroes had scrambled to avert disasters of the epic variety. "Wait… wait a second. You said Death wouldn't pull the plug, but he could have anyway. He _would have, _anyway," Bobby said, mind fixating on the one last thing that threatened to make him blow his stack, despite present company.

"Do not presume," Death began, voice laden with dark promises of retribution.

"Oh give it a rest," God snapped, and the air inside the kitchen grew thick and heavy with carefully controlled irritation that rated way up high on the pecking order. Death merely looked at God, and whatever unspoken communication travelled the air between those two primordial pairs of eyes no doubt decided something dramatically legendary, in terms of power struggles. Death looked away first, even looking slightly cowed, while God merely returned His gaze to Bobby's face. "No, Death would not shirk his duty. After all, the End is contingent on the order and structure required to facilitate the process that is supposed to run a course and end. Not even Death can sidestep _that_."

"We like anonymity, Robert," Death said, the moment of tension vanished. "Despite our obvious ability, it's tedious to deal with the fallout of making ourselves known to every breathing bag of life that has wherewithal enough to know us, know _of_ us. Your precious Winchesters, and yourself, were unique exceptions, and only because you had use, and were… entertaining."

"What My skeletal friend over here is getting at is that he actually needs to apologize," God said, and this time, His voice was firmly set in the kind of tone that no one should even consider gainsaying. "He never will – he considers it beneath him – but the fact is, all of this… this entire build-up over the course of eons: the careful predestination leading to the end of the world, the fates embodied by every Heavenly agent and others, the elements that had been the guiding line for all events in this particular reality, focusing on this unique little planet; it was all his idea."

"To draw _You_ out," Death accused. God snorted.

"You played a deep game with too-high stakes and _still_ thought it would just slide?" God countered. And that was the straw the broke a million camels' backs. Bobby stormed to his feet, eyes glinting furiously.

"Get out of my house!" Bobby barked, enraged beyond words, his eyes thunderously trained on the Horseman, whose own gaze turned suddenly, lethally dark. Death got up slowly, and Bobby felt dread consume his mind, souring his initial fury and turning his outraged courage into a small, pitiful dying shriek inside his own head.

"I think you should go," God said from the side, attention turned to Death, then got to His feet as well, towering over both Bobby and the Horseman, His eternal gaze broadcasting a warning of deified proportions like a lighthouse beacon.

"This is not over," Death enunciated carefully, his clipped British accent betraying fuming anger.

"No, it isn't, and I have to say, _I don't think it ever will be_. At least this means you'll always have job security," God said, and the humour in those words barely covered the very closeness of wrath such as had not been seen on the planet in millennia.

"Mark my words, Robert Singer, you –"

"Need not fear false pronouncements made by brittle anthropomorphised beings when they can't have their way," God interrupted, and His eyes flashed dangerously with clear warning, a slight sheen of otherworldly might gathering and ready to rip free if any more provocation was ventured. "If you so much as _think_ in the general direction of the Winchesters, their surrogate earthly father and their allies, _while they live and breathe to their natural end_, I will make you wish you could end your own long existence by your own hand."

Death was gone so suddenly that the inrush of air blasting minutely from the space he had vacated sent an unnaturally cold chill coursing down Bobby's spine. He noticed belatedly that the kitchen table was also clear of all the junk food and drinks that had accompanied the Horseman. God resumed His seat, His features and posture returning to the amicability of before.

"There you have it. Both sides of the equation, both ends played to their end," He said.

"This was all a _game _to You?" Bobby asked, flustered and upset despite the potentially terminal showdown he had nearly had front-row seats to.

"It was all a game to _him_. And because _I_ had set the limits in which such things could happen, I played against him. Does this ease your peace of mind, Bobby?" Bobby couldn't answer. God sighed. "I will say to you what I said to Sam and Dean: I _will not_ break the structures I had set in place to govern free will. This simultaneously opens up the entire debate on why I let things happen, and also why I _have_ to let things happen."

"You're saying that you _can't_ interfere?" Bobby asked. This just kept getting better and better.

"And _won't._ This once, just this once, I felt it prudent to actually tell you and the boys why I allowed what happened. To maybe let you all know that what you've worked towards was never in vain, and never unnoticed. And to, at the very least, give you all a slight idea of why you've always managed to hold on to hope. Even if you can't understand it all, or accept it, just to _know_ why. I will not live your lives for you, Bobby Singer. I have lived many, and I will _always_ be in awe of what the boys accomplished, and what your part in all of this was. I wish I could give you peace on this world, but to do so, to rewrite everything so that there's a happy ending behind every corner, is not how this will go. Not until the _real_ apocalypse comes."

"So we deal with everything just like we always do," Bobby sighed, making his peace as only the truly life-weathered denizens of humanity ever could, getting what God was getting at.

"At the very least it will get easier, from here onwards," God said, getting to His feet and stepping around the table. "I do not have any particularly dramatic reward that I will give you right now, Bobby, but I _can_ give you a little peace, at least." God stood directly in front of Bobby, looking down at the old hunter, and smiled. "Your wife is waiting for you in a Heaven that is unmarred by the civil war it has endured. You will not see her here, again, in any form, but you will join here when this life has run its course. _I give you my _word. You will live a life that, although not gold standard according to the ways of this world, will not end in terrible pain and suffering, like every hunter expects to. Be at peace, Bobby Singer, and take care of your boys. The Impala is pulling up your driveway as we speak."

Bobby gasped, and even as he mouthed a brief 'thank you', God vanished, a light, calming echo in His wake, trailing the words 'you're welcome' as Bobby turned and ran from the kitchen, stopping dead for a moment when his eyes fell on the steaming pot of chilli cooking on the stove. But then he heard the beautiful rumbling V8 of the Impala as it churned over the gravel driveway and up to his house. He charged on, into the foyer and threw wide the front door, seeing Sam and Dean unfold themselves from the car, their actions hurried, their faces aglow with excitement.

"Bobby, you will not _believe –"_

"Bobby, wait 'til you hear what –"

"I already know, _idjits! _And you coulda _called_!_"_

_Thanks to everyone who left a review, you are all _golden! _And, because of that… TBC._


	5. John

_**A/N 1: **H__ere it is at last; last chapter, folks! For those of you who favoured, read and reviewed, thank you, it means so much that someone enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed penning it! My eternal gratitude to you all!_

_**A/N 2: **__So this chapter was one of the hardest ones for me to conceptualize and write, and I have a niggling suspicion that I might not have gotten John's character completely right. Still, his character had never had the luxury of achieving the maturity of six seasons' worth of build-up, so, I hope y'all can forgive me if I missed a few key aspects. This chapter was also pretty heavy, and I hope it doesn't come across as too weighty and lofty. But I thought that John, at least, also deserved a chat with God. So, have a read, and if you like, let me know!_

**_Disclaimer:_**_ I do not own anything in here, except my own thoughts and my own desire to somehow see a happy ending for every possible great character brought to life by the might of Kripke, Gamble and the talented actors that breathed life into thousands upon thousands of fan fics out there. _

**Chapter 5: John**

The first thing he saw was the myriad of light green, nascent buds on the branches. That, and the slight shiver of new growth, breaking through thousand-year-old bark.

The Garden was always a strange place. It contained trees, plants and shrubs from every possible biome on the planet, existing in a state of elegant green perfection. There were trees here that grew to four, even five times the size of anything on earth, and saplings that were as spry and lithe as if they were but a few years into fresh life, not immortally coiled into an endless celebration of the power that made them thrive. It was a gloriously fitting, considering that more than two millennia ago, the Almighty had walked here, walked in His garden, in settings that reflected His indefinable, immemorial existence.

On good days, when Heaven was at peace, the Host occupied with keeping the world's forces and fates regulated and running, and the archangels themselves had refrained from their sometimes child-like playing and bickering, the sky that stretched over the Gateway of the Axis Mundi turned pearlescent gold as it curved beyond sight. Yes, Heaven was comprised of the billions of collected memories and spheres of the faithful dead, clustered about the Crux, the centre of Heaven, but for many of the collected souls that have existed here in a state of eons, proximity and awareness of the great city that wrapped itself around the Throne and the Garden was a Heavenly reward, a privilege that all were welcome to irrespective of time spent here in the afterlife, and many ultimately aspired to.

Here, the clouds were never too close, never cast shadows on the denizens of the city, or the far-off multi-winged majesty of the Inward Principalities that governed and guarded the Gateway, swooping lazily about, their watchfulness unbroken by eons upon eons of guardianship despite their languid gestures. The Holy City that straddled the very midst of the Great Road, like a massive collection of golden domes, timeless stone towers and unimaginably high spires, stood quiet apart from the slow hum of power that graced this bird's eye view. It was a hum that had vanished, two thousand years back. It was at that same time that every bloom in the Garden closed its petals, and the gardener as well as the entire assembled host, awakened to sudden, plummeting fear and indecision, watched as death reached into the very depths of Heaven, for the first time ever. Joshua had watched, his wizened gaze turning liquid with horror and sadness. First, before even all the archangels still in Heaven had realized, he had known what had happened. He had sunk to his knees in the tall grass that still grew and swayed about them, ignoring the hushed cries and the rising tide of demands for revelation and clarity. In his mind, _the_ Gardener's voice was dwindling, speaking softly as Joshua listened. But he would keep those words close, would memorize and repeat them over and over until the prophesied day. A day that would come unlooked for by even the great divinities that governed and ordered the writ of prophecy into and through those mortal vessels, chosen on earth, to carry word in times of great adversity.

_He knows what the angels are doing. He knows that the Apocalypse has begun._

Great tumult had warred within his mind then. Surely, yes, time was fluid for all angels, but the ones like Joshua, who had willingly distanced themselves from the politics and hierarchies of Heaven, long before the earth had even stood, were cut off from the gist of matters, their capabilities to affect the world outside almost as nothing compared to the lowliest of cherubs that finely tuned mortal sensibilities to fall in step with predestination. But as a gardener, as a willing simpleton in the Host, dedicated only to the absolute service of simpler matters, Joshua had lovingly tended the paths of the Lord in His domain, and with tenderness and infinite care. And because of that, because of such a simple concession to remain the most humble of the angels, and willingly, Joshua was privy to something that not even the archangels sometimes knew: the inner turmoil, the sadness that plagued an Almighty God at the state of His creation, at the travails of His angels.

_He just doesn't think it's… His problem._

Joshua had seen glimpses, small smatterings of blurred visuals, could almost hear the voices of the distraught mortals to whom he would one day deliver these words. He did not know how long before this happened, for the time that stayed and steadied the steps of God was known only to Himself. An apocalypse… that was nothing new. But that it was whispered now, at the very moment that every single flower and flower-bearing plant, tree and shrub in the Garden was suddenly darkened with the unheard of spectacle of _death_ within the Heavens… troubling was not a fitting word to describe it. And Joshua had known that God had left His Host, His Heaven and His throne, leaving it without so much as an explanation to his four eldest angels. Only Joshua.

Michael was furious, because Michael did not know, could not detect, the silent whisper of warning to the lowly angel who tended the Lord's Garden. And Joshua would never presume to approach the Mighty Judge of the Battlefield, the First General of the Holy Host, let alone speak to him. It was… meant to be, he knew, as the final lines of thought from his Father reached his ears, and his ears alone. He could hear the words, could hear them spoke in his own voice. Spoken through him by God, shaped into destiny before destiny itself would start unravelling. It was a terrible duty, a maelstrom pit of terror, to know these details, to know an outcome but not the means.

_It's more than He's intervened in a long time… He's finished… I suppose He could, but He __I __won't._

"Father, please, let me see more," Joshua had whispered, closing his eyes, raising his face to accept the dwindling light as the clouds darkened and began casting a pall over the City like there had never been seen, the very air turning colder, crisper. Was not faith the companion of fear, its equal in moments of doubt and its better in times of suffering? Was it sin to question? And then the words, faded and all but vanished into the silence that echoed through the darkness over the City, caressed Joshua's mind with the intimacy of a parent instructing the meekest and neediest – yet ever beloved – youngest child.

_When the time comes, be kind and truthful. But _do not_ interfere. It will not be the first time, nor the last. But this time, they must _remember, _even when they are returned…_

And for two thousand years, Joshua did not hear the voice of his Father again. Waited for it daily, trimmed the hedges and patiently maintained what beauty he could within the colder climes that seemed to tug at everything here, now. The Winter of Heaven, they called it. No flower had he tended here, but what those resting souls wandering into the Garden itself brought with them, the beautiful recollections of life's remembrances on earth. But none of it could recapture the surreal magnificence of what was now lost.

One by one the remaining archangels paid their respects, or visits. Gabriel, glib and garish in the travesty of his own secretive ways and affectations, his 'witness protection' as he called it, but respectful even as the despair of their Father's absence touched his fair angelic features. Michael, so lonely and tired, no match, despite his astonishing powers and charismatic command presence, for the constant wear of the Holy Host and _life_ on his sensibilities, his desire and duty to guide and preside over a realm now absent its true Guide.

And then Raphael came, and in haughtiness he sneered at the simplest act that Joshua still performed, as if at any moment God might return. Raphael most of all was embittered, even more so when the fate of existence was suddenly teetering on the most basic decisions, wrought in absolute love and dedication, flowing through two mortal brothers who within moments suddenly unbound the collective millennia of prophesied actions and end goals. He was now the ruler in Heaven, and his spirit had become mean and petty as a result, embittered and dissatisfied.

God would not find His Garden neglected, this Joshua had sworn, right alongside his vows of before, to remember the words, and to speak them in wisdom, sympathy and truthfulness when the time had come. _When the two boys had come _here, _to the Garden itself, for the first time, and then perhaps, for the last._ Joshua could not see far, even in Heaven, and he could certainly not see beyond that moment he would meet those two. All that was granted him was, in that moment, to deliver the words, and then to rescind their presence. It was only then that he knew what had been spoken; that destiny would find itself unhinged and laid waste, mere earthly months hence.

Raphael did not speak to Joshua, and the gardener did not deign himself worth the only remaining archangel's attention. He had nothing to say to Raphael. His purpose had been fulfilled; ages of waiting, culminated in bringing despair to the hearts of those boys before sending them back to earth to finish their work there, and all he had to go on was unshakable faith, and the sadness of an ancient angel that was commanded to bring pain and break hope, if only to force hope to thrive again, in an unlooked-for moment. _That_ at least, that moment of triumph, where the angel Zachariah had met his end, and Heaven gasped as the great orchestrator, the arid-minded, unimaginative right hand of the despairing Michael, of the apocalypse's end-game, had been brought low by a mere mortal, had been granted as a vision of sorts to Joshua. He had smiled grimly as he remembered; he had felt no cruel malice or vindication at the death, only a sad realization that things would get worse before they got better, now. So, all that he could do was tend the Garden, and wait.

And it seemed his waiting was finally bearing fruit, even as one of the crisp little leaflets from a bud snapped free of its dirt-encrusted cocoon of bark and soil, and a single shoot of light pinkish and white petals unfurled like tiny wings. Overhead, there was a cloud break, a massive shift of the ever-present clouds rolling back, right at that moment, to wash the Garden in golden hues and warmer tones. Joshua closed his eyes, tilted back his wrinkled face and soaked in the light. Once more, he was the first to sense this change. When the light once more faded somewhat, and he had opened his eyes, the small flower was still there, slowly growing larger, spreading its petals wider. The gardener angel smiled, and then he turned around, eyes seeking the Tower rising up to meet the very bend of sky that was bowed around the apex of the heavens, where the Throne rested still.

Joshua smiled, knowing suddenly and with the clarity of two millennia before, what was transpiring.

* * *

><p>"I had thought it fitting, that we meet here, where on a clear day, <em>everything<em> is visible, no matter the time, space, or reality."

John Winchester watched the tall presence standing at the top of the elevated platform. He could barely keep his eyes focused, because the… man before him seemed to radiate light like a beacon, a pleasant and heart-warming aura of gold and white fire that danced over skin and hair. It was a handsome picture, a tall man, even taller than John, who had a chiselled face, open features and honest, dancing eyes. Those crisp blue eyes were the depths of a winter sky, unclouded and clear, refreshing and wise, and the mouth smiled easily, the smallest wrinkles of mirth touching the edges even as they gave warmth to the whole face. John Winchester knew divinity when he saw it, even if he had spent his whole life not believing, not caring, in fact, warning away from false hope in greater powers. Where he was standing now, staring out over _everything_, it was so hard to hold on to that lifelong despair and belief in no greater good, wrapped in soldierly command and resolve.

"I guess I was wrong a lot more than I thought," he said, sighing. God smiled wide, teeth flashing, as He tilted back His head slightly, then placed a hand on the back of the simple yet flawless seat, made of interlocking rectangular slabs of some warm stone. It stood on a dais made of seven steps, each one smaller than the one below it. It was the Throne of Heaven, John knew, and he was here, in the heart of the divine, conversing causally with a God he had never trusted in, or believed in. _Oh, Mary, where are you now, that you could see _this?

"It is not failure be wrong, John; it is failure to _admit_ it for fear of being weak," God said simply.

"I've done that a lot too."

"You had to work in a dark world, with limited understanding," God forgave easily, with a small hitch of wide shoulders. "You had two small boys to protect, in a time when everything around you seemed threatening and damning." God removed His hand from the back of the Throne and slowly, gracefully descended the seven steps to stand before John.

"My kids resent me," John said. "I made so many mistakes. Dean… he resents me for turning him into a soldier, for asking him to kill Sam if he couldn't save him. And Sammy… he never saw me as anything but the obstacle he needed to overcome in order to live his own life." Then he breathed out, and continued. "And Adam was my biggest mistake… I damned him without ever giving him the chance to even protect himself from the things I forced onto Sam and Dean."

"You didn't look very closely, John," God said, His voice kindly. "If Dean resents you for what you asked of him in his short life, he also knows, now, the value of protecting his own, of putting his foot down to save his loved ones even when he knows the pain it might cause to obey that order. And Sam, more than ever, finally understands why you sought to keep so much from him, so that you could preserve his humanity and give him the strength of reliance, so that he could finally make his own informed decisions and not be ashamed of their outcome. To choose his own path. And even if Adam's mortal life was so short, and so traumatic with the sudden arrival of all these supernatural forces that first destroyed his life, and then consigned his soul to an eternity of suffering… at the very heart of him was always gratitude, simply to_ have_ a father figure who _did_ try to be a father, in the most normal, everyday sense. Even when he was lonely, and felt it unfair that his father wasn't always there for him and his mother."

"I don't know if I can accept that," John replied, feeling the comforting glow of the praise but also feeling irrevocably bound by what he considered his failures with his sons. "You make it sound wonderful, but is it the truth?"

"It's the truth whether you can forgive yourself for it, or not," God stated.

"You brought Adam out of that cage?" John asked. He had not seen Adam on earth, and he hadn't dared to look deep down, even from the heights of Heaven, to what the pits of Hell held enchained in their darkest depths. God nodded.

"Because he was more ignorant of what was out there, I deemed it best that he not be subject to the worst of it. He had no knowledge to withstand it, despite the blood that flows through his veins," God smiled and winked at John. "Adam is here in Heaven, and here he will remain forevermore, and free of his time spent in the Cage as Michael's vessel."

"But you kept Sam and Dean down there to live through all that hell," John stated, disproving.

"Your elder sons are made of a much stronger substance than Adam was, if only because of the way they were raised. And no, John, they are not without their reward down there. The least I could do for Sam was to give him certain peace from the Cage, in such a way that life will not be a constant fight for sanity, without robbing him of the honour of his selfless sacrifice and what he learnt from doing what he did. To Dean I gave both freedom and peace, because he cannot live freely without Sam by his side, and he will never allow himself to have peace if his brother does not give it to him, simply by _being._"

"Did I raise them too hard? Do You think it was unfair of me to do what I did, forcing them to live inside each other's pockets?" John asked earnestly. The answers he was getting were completely devoid of falsehood, because he saw the truth in every word even as he heard it and mulled it over.

"Perhaps if you hadn't, then the world would be a very different place now," God intimated. "They have a bond unlike anything that has ever been seen in the world, and whether you think it a good or a bad thing, John, you had a very large part to play in it." John sighed, feeling a bit validated, but still not certain where all of this was leading to. There were many things he regretted, and in light of where he was right now, as many things that made him wonder at the seeming stroke of luck.

"So why am I here, then?" John asked, swallowing, wondering what the punishment was for a lifetime of close-mindedness and faithlessness. Were there worse things than the hell he suffered for a century, for the torment of being removed from his boys' lives when they had needed him so much? For not being there to save Mary, for not being there to save Dean, for not being there to save little Sammy?

"Such thoughts serve no purpose here, John," God interrupted the train of guilty recriminations. "People misunderstand a lot of things. It's easy to attach blame when you don't understand something, and hunters thrive and survive on the ability to mistrust accurately. Everything that happened, happened for reasons that I won't be specific about. The details could drive you insane." Even as the words sounded, and John wondered about how easy it was to just justify all the small minutiae away, he knew for a fact that, even as a soul exalted beyond the trappings of mortality, he, John Winchester, extraordinary hunter of evil and deeply caring if staid father, would never be able to contemplate or comprehend the inner workings of the mind of the eternal God. Still, it wasn't enough, not yet. He needed to _know_.

"But You could," John breathed, his throat working, his mind trying to find its usual clear-cut, defined modes of reasoning. The crisp, fast thoughts of a battlefield veteran, seeking to create order and stability in the middle of a skirmish, to give peace of mind to those who had lost their own in the throes of trauma and despair. He found that it was nearly impossible, while being this close to God. Who nodded slowly, His face radiating nameless sadness. "Why did You let this happen?"

"Because to have interfered would have cost humanity it's very core, the very essence that make you all so unbelievably precious to Me," came the easy yet weighty response.

"That's bull," John stated stoically, unwilling to accept what he considered a convenient cop-out. He fully expected wrath to obliterate him, but he was tired, and weary of circles within circles, always leading to greatly complex things that defied instant answers and solutions. That had always been Sammy's way, and Dean, despite the carbon-copy affectations of being like his dad, had never had trouble dealing and accepting that and accommodating it. To John, questioning orders was tantamount to wilful disobedience, and Sam had often carried the brunt of that. It saddened John, knowing how his beloved youngest had actually turned into the most amazing young man, a hunter on par with his brother, and a man worthy of the sacrifices John had made to keep them both safe.

"I wish to tell you something, John," God said, remarkably unflustered by the blatant defiance of the human soul that stood before Him. "But you need not accept it."

"Why ask permission?" John asked.

"Because it means that forgiveness is often not necessary, then, because there is nothing to forgive." God took a single step away from John, turning to gaze out one of the tall windows that allowed so much light into the Throne Room. "I will not lie, because I cannot."

"I've heard that before," John said. _From Lucifer, when the archangel had so craftily seduced Sammy, brought John's embattled youngest to the brink with promises of peace, rest and release. John had been in the Throne Room for scant moments, and also for immeasurable centuries, watching helpless the space of years in the span of moments, felt the growing despair and sadness as his sons fought tooth and nail to stay human, stay together. John had seen it all, and he could not do _one single thing_ to advise, to protect, to comfort. He had seen the highlights, seen his sons struggle with ever-escalating trials, year by year. Seeing Sam give in to Lucifer, to attempt to trick that ancient malice, had undone John, and for the first time in _centuries_ he had cried long tears of remorse and heartbroken sadness at what baby boy had suffered, simply so that an uncaring world could have another chance. _

"Not from Me."

"How do I know that?" John countered again, wondering why he was being so stubborn. Despite his best efforts, he could feel _nothing _remotely resembling malice, or veiled threat, from this amiable presence beside him. It could be a trick, the most elaborate ever, or it could be truth such as John had never imagined possible, and he was dancing all along that razor-thin edge of indecision.

"What could I possibly hope to gain from falsehood, John? Do you think I would plunge you into the deepest corners of hell for not agreeing with Me, for gainsaying My every word?"

"Yes."

And God laughed. John was shocked to the core, because it was so refreshing a gesture, so uninhibited by the cares of a world wrapped in the fog of its own insecurities and fears that it made him want to smile and join in. But he carefully maintained a stoic face, and waited for the next step forward. The moment of mirth passed, but the smile remained, an honest and unflappable expression.

"How could I not repay your honesty with My own, John Winchester?" the Almighty asked. "You are here because I wish to answer any questions you have, about anything you might think of. I will do it truthfully, though many things may cause you pain."

"Why do this?" John asked again.

"Because I did it for your sons, and for my own misguided angel, and for your old friend Bobby Singer. It's the least I can do."

"Fine. Then where's my wife?"

"Not here," God replied candidly. "Not yet."

"Is she safe?"

"She was never in danger, after her untimely mortal death, in the first place." John swallowed, and this time it was a lump that threatened to stick in his throat and blur his vision with sudden tears. "John, why would you ever think Me so cruel and uncaring that I would consign even those with limited faith, or dark and tragic pasts, to the Fiery Pit, with nary a thought for the sanctity of every thing that shapes each and every one of you?"

John took a deep breath, feeling every monstrous injustice and indignity suffered in life come surging to the forefront of his mind, clamouring for attention and demanding to be justified, or proved wrong. And so the fire of his question, even as it caught him off guard, served to strengthen his resolve all the more. He wanted answers, and God seemed willing to give them.

"Because _You_ made a world that kills so easily; pus mothers of small babies on the ceiling with their guts sliced open and their flesh melted off their bones. You left a world that was turned into a zoo by _Your_ precious angels, where demons come and go and do as they please, with no consequence," John grated accusingly. "You want me to believe anything You say, but You didn't do _anything_ to stop these things from happening, again and again and again!" He was quite vehement by now, daring God to strike, daring the Almighty to damn him all over again.

"Because I lived lives that were touched by everything you just mentioned," God interjected, and John was appalled that He was seemingly continuing the cant that John had just thrown out there, with as much accusatory forces as John had invested in his own words. "Because I would not step in to stop these atrocities even when they tormented and destroyed the very flesh, blood and soul that formed around My intentions, the very fabric of a world I wanted to thrive on its own, without Me interfering every step of the way. Because in so many of My lives on earth, I had to watch parents die, leaving orphans behind; see cruel destiny destroy love and stamp out hope. Felt demons and monsters tear into flesh and bone for nothing more than depravity and wanton destruction. Felt the spray of bullets rip through skin and body, felt the pain of knives stab deep into guts; the touch of winter sucking out life, the swell of the ocean waves crushing existence into darkness, the feel of earth squeezing the last breath out of weary lungs, the feel of life as it ebbs from decimated bodies." God took a step towards John, His eyes radiant with unshed tears, His mouth caught in a moue of pain and inner suffering, and John was mortified by the emotions that rampaged across the immaculate face. "The despair of a child when its mother leaves her behind; the horror of a baby in his unformed thoughts when fire eats across the ceiling; the terror of the boy whose father has to go to fight a nameless foe, never to return; the suffering of a wife who loses the ability to bear children, when all she ever wanted was to add life and hope to a world that desperately needs it; the pain of a man who realizes too late that the hopes of his children were simply to feel loved and safe and accepted, not shaped, restricted and distanced for fear of loss."

"_Why?"_ John asked, and he felt his sight blur at the impassioned yet monstrously devastating delivery of the silently weeping being before him, felt his own tears run trails down his unwilling cheeks. He could feel accusation in those words, could see the parallels being drawn that echoed his own thoughts and fears, and he wondered why he suddenly felt so very weary at it all. Why he wished nothing more than to vanish out of existence completely, his soul beaten and tired beyond measure.

"So that I could love again, love anew, always and forever. So that I could never forget why I _let_ life take this course," God replied, and this time, His eyes were limned in tears of hope and redemption. "So that every single human child who ever felt hungry, needy, lonely and fearful would never taste it again when brief life was cast aside by the monstrosities that roam the earth. To come here where all is forgiven and forgotten, and where lives that had no memories of joy and happiness could find comfort in the shadows of the ones who had lived safe, happy existences on earth; could learn from them, and experience life _here_, forever free of the pain and torment of life before, to taste and touch only the good and not even _remember_ that things had ever been bad. So that the small baby surrounded by fire could have a father who saved him and a brother who protected and loved him; so that the father could survive his war for another day and return to the children he kept safe because of his efforts. So that every mother who could not bear her own children could become the mother of all around her, and the father who taught his boys to be strong could stand here now and be proud of what his flawed yet pure intentions have wrought, knowing his boys survived everything they were put through, and came out immensely stronger for it. Hardened by life, to give those who never had guidance a fighting chance to learn, and love, and thrive."

"You could have prevented all of this, _all of it, _but You left it to us? _Why? _Why leave these things for ignorant people who know no better, and screw up everything they touch? Why did You let us have this pain?" John asked, heartbroken and soothed in turns, and not caring that the very presence beside him was its cause, or that it was the real deal. God shook His head slowly, meaningfully and with so much empathy that John wanted to scream at the unfairness of such endless grace and sympathy, and at the singular unfairness of life itself, even if he somehow felt robbed of pinning it all on God before him.

"Knowing what you know now, John, would you have changed anything? Would you have given your sons a normal life, knowing of the darkness out there? Would you have let Dean be his own man, not bound despite his own love and willingness, to raise and teach Sam? Would you have cheered Sam on when he chose to go to college, not to escape you but _to make you proud of him_?" God asked solemnly. John shook his head slowly, wracking his thoughts for a denial, summoning up everything in him to scream _yes_ and be redeemed for his failures. But he could not lie, not to God, and it filled him suddenly with no shame, to admit it to himself.

"No," he whispered brokenly.

"And the pain you feel even now, the pain of leaving them behind in a world they could never shut away from themselves, ever again… that world would have destroyed then, and been destroyed as a result, if you did not do what you had done. Because you _were_ a good father, and you _did_ want what was best for them."

"Yes."

"None of this," God said, and the sudden insistence in His voice drew John up short, forced him to look up and hold the suddenly steely gaze of limitless power, staring at him through limitless depths of sorrow, understanding and strength. "_None of it_ would have been possible without the down side; without the pain of guilt to make the thrill of redemption all the sweeter; without the anguish of despair to light the fire of hope; without the suffering of centuries to make the return to life and love all the more bearable and acceptable."

"What's the point in all of this?" John asked. He wanted to know, _needed_ to know. "Why tell me all of this?"

God spread His arms wide, His features transforming into the picture of melancholy long-suffering, but with the promise of peace and restoration flaring golden in the depths of the rich blue eyes. "So that you can know for yourself why you suffered, and yet still thrived. Why you despaired, but still loved." A few slow moments passed, of John thinking it through, carefully mulling it over, putting the pieces of the dramatic and stunning picture he had been given together. Finally he closed his eyes, his mouth thinning with the realization, his heart slowly lulled into a soothed state of willing acceptance. God nodded then, knowing that John could finally see it. "Balance brings beauty, because it gives and it takes evenly, even when you can't see it right then. A child that knows no love will still seek it blindly, even if that search could lead to a bitter end. A baby that knows no way to describe its feelings will still smile when it receives attention from a loving parent, and will still cry when it feels nameless fear or pain. Life untaught stills finds a way to excel, and when we know better, then it is by the actions and methods of our intentions that we achieve balance and validation for everything we do."

"I think I get it," John admitted, and for once, he felt no desire to take the knowledge and use it to his own advantage, or to forge it into some weapon to be used for self-preservation and protection of his loved ones – there was no need, not anymore. This was simply clarification of so many things, a sharing of unimaginable value. But God, wise beyond reckoning, noted even that old streak of hunter-like instinct and paranoia, and continued.

"Demons know only passion, and it destroys them beyond redemption. Angels know only duty, and it denies them the power to see ought but what they perceive to be My will. Yes, even my archangels, who could feel and respond, ultimately rely on what I would ultimately say. But you," God extended a meaningful hand towards John, as though He equated John to be the sole representative of every human that ever was and would be. "You get to endure the blandishments of both sides, of both parties, and still arrive at the other end, rich in spirit, mind and life beyond anything that exists, even My angels. Free will is your gift, and the very thing that makes you suffer, even as it allows you to rise above angels, demons and monsters, and become the single most beloved of children in My vast creation."

John could only shake his head. Even when he knew, somewhere in the back of his mind, that he did not want to believe this, he also felt that old, almost ancient feeling of hope and deliverance again, like he had not felt since the night that Mary had died. Since before, when Dean was just Dean, a precocious and charming little four-year-old kid who had _just _started to like play football and just _be a kid_, not a soldier. Where Sam's future was yet untold and unmapped, and his six-month-old will was not warped to feed the drive of an apocalypse that would ultimately never be. Just a baby. And Mary was just John's wife, retired from a hunting life she never wanted, and had seemingly escaped. When life was not an illusion built on false security, but a gift. And it filled John with more hope than he had dared to feel and _trust_ in a long time. He felt the skin of a hunter slough off his body now, felt the freedom and peace that his sons still fought to hold onto settle into his bones, here, where death no longer held dominion, and there was only endless possibility and the chance to live a life that, although not real in the strictest sense, would be the best that it could ever be, all things considered. So John allowed himself the luxury of _feeling_ this, of feeling like a man and not a soldier, like a father and not a drill sergeant. He shook his head, a smile wrapping itself through his jaw, as he looked at the God he never believed in, but Who had just granted him the freedom of will and the gift of knowledge and peace.

"Will my boys be okay?"

"You sons, John Winchester, are guaranteed their places of honour, here with me, when their time comes," God allowed, then slowly turned from John and ascended the steps. With a slow, infinitely graceful gait the tall mortal-seeming avatar took the steps, before turning around to stand with His back turned to the Throne, ready to take a seat that had not seen His magnificence in millennia. "But they are about to embark on a journey that is entirely their own, and not written in any mind in Heaven and below, but Mine." An elegant finger tapped the side of the head, and a sudden smile spoke uncounted volumes of secrets known, and knowledge kept where _nothing_ could be moved to ever get it. And John would not have had it any other way, so he just returned the smile, his own way of saying thank you. And God knew it, because He nodded his acknowledgment in turn.

"And that old reprobate, Singer?" John couldn't resist as he grinned, thinking of crotchety old Bobby in heaven, yelling 'idjit' at every angel and soul that annoyed his old afterlife.

"Soon, but not yet, and that's all I have to say about the matter," God said simply. Then He sat down, placing both hands on the armrests of the Throne, His back straight, face held high, eyes suddenly transforming into lighthouse beacons of pure, radiant light and intensity, white fire dancing in the depths as the smile slipped into an expression of simple yet all-knowing majesty. Beneath his feet, John could feel a humming sensation build, could feel an overwhelming sensation of _rightness_ echo through the chamber.

For the first time in his life, death and thereafter, John Winchester lowered his head and gave not-so-grudging respect and obeisance to the only supernatural being that had never demanded it of him, and had the good grace to make no demands of his abilities and his being. Then he straightened himself and turned to go.

Behind him, the avatar that was God dissipated in a storming torrent of blazing, actinic fire and energy, becoming a radiant force of never-to-be-equalled and always-unrivalled majesty, taking His place for the first time in two thousand years, His presence blasting through the Heavens like a clarion call and homing beacon to the wearied angelic souls and suddenly renewed faithful dead. John Winchester did not look back, as he left the Tower and made his way to the Garden.

* * *

><p>Joshua watched John Winchester walk beneath the trees of the Garden. The grizzled-looking mortal soul now shone with something akin to the peace that the true faithful always had, and were always unconscious of. It was the signature brilliance of the human soul, and it was something that in its very own way was as beautiful as the angelic grace that gave the Holy Host its own unique grandeur. The man made his way to where the gardener angel waited.<p>

"Did you finally find your way?" Joshua asked, a kindly smile gracing his weathered face.

"It took a while, and it was dark for a bit, but it's better now," John replied.

"Then you should know that there is a very beautiful woman waiting for you, over this hill, near the river," Joshua stated, tilting his head to the left and hitching a thumb over his shoulder, and it warmed his ancient being when centuries of damnation and hard mortal life dropped away from John Winchester's shoulders. The man gave him a radiant grin and started walking briskly towards the top of the hill. Above, where the Tower rose, the sky suddenly sheared in half as sunlight broke through the clouds, and the very top of that immemorial edifice suddenly exploded with golden fire. Overhead, the Holy Host was suddenly in flight, the sight of millions upon millions of wings catching the hallowed fire of the God that they had longed for, winging their way to the Throne Room to pay homage and obeisance to a returned Lord.

Around Joshua, the Garden burst into full bloom, and the gardener sat down slowly on the small bench behind him, taking it all in. He laughed suddenly.

This was _good_.

_FIN_


End file.
